Lacrimosa
by uchiha.s
Summary: semi-historical AU with magic. After Draco purchases Hermione as his new concubine, she is thrown in the path of the new composer for the court, Voldemort. And soon she finds herself making a deal with the devil himself... TMR/HG/DM
1. Act One: Andante

Lacrimosa

Summary: semi-historical AU. Only enslaved Mudblood Hermione knows the famous composer Voldemort's darkest secret. TMR/HG/DM

Author's Note: so, confession: I suck at fending off the plotbunnies. *feeds one a fanfiction-carrot* Hopefully it'll only be a few chapters, but I say that every time.

Disclaimer: the HP universe does not belong to me; I am just borrowing.

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><p><strong>Act One: Andante <strong>

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><p>"Hurry up! The Malfoys are going to be here soon!" hissed one of the other servants, Seamus, through the cracked doorway. Hermione scowled but didn't supply a retort, as the task of getting into her 'nice' servant uniform was rather demanding. This one had a corset waist—because, apparently, being an indentured servant wasn't painful enough—and took quite a bit of heave-ho-ing to lace up.<p>

Red in the face and admittedly a bit out of breath, Hermione jammed her feet into the plain black shoes that she wore every day that were much too small, and stumbled out of her quarters that she shared with all of the other maids.

"Miss Pansy's going to have a fit when she sees your hair," warned another maid, Angelina, a bit crossly. Hermione snapped back at her as the trio hurried along the narrow hallway that led from the servants' quarters to the front of the enormous city mansion in which the Parkinson family dwelled. It took up a sizeable plot of Hogsmeade grounds and was big enough that Hermione rarely went outside. Even though it was a gloomy grey December afternoon, and even though there was even more work to be done than usual, Hermione was cheered by the prospect of seeing the light of day and breathing fresh air.

It wasn't just that the Malfoys were coming that caused the entire household into a flurry of commotion—though that did tend to generate a bit of upheaval, as Pansy was trying to become betrothed to the younger Master Malfoy—but it was mainly because the Malfoys were bringing a guest.

It was the arrival of the infamous new composer of the court, who went by the name of Voldemort, that was really stirring up things.

"I heard he's beautiful," gossiped Angelina as they tumbled out of the side entrance into the muddy alleyway. Angelina and Hermione had something in common: they were both in love with men of the Weasley clan. "The finest example of a man in all of Hogsmeade, so they say..."

"Enough of that shite; we've got to hurry or Miss Pansy'll have our heads," snapped Seamus brusquely as he led the two maids round to the front of the mansion. The city street of Hogsmeade was packed with carriages and peddlers, though a particularly notable carriage had stopped at the gaudy baroque entrance of the Parkinson house.

The carriage itself was as fashionable as the Parkinson home, as both dripped with gilding and decoration. Even in the grey wintry daylight it was a mass of glimmering decor. Hermione was not as subdued as Angelina or Seamus—a quality that rather frequently resulted in beatings—so she did not keep her head down as was expected of a girl of her class. Instead she openly stared as Seamus went to aid Lady Narcissa Malfoy out of the carriage.

As usual, the stunning blonde was bedecked in the latest fashions out of Paris, which today meant that Seamus had to fumble with near metres of lovely brocade. Pansy and her mother Iris descended the front stairs of their home, though neither woman set a slippered foot on the muddy road.

"Narcissa, darling, you look enchanting," cooed Iris as she and Narcissa curtsied to each other. Next out of the carriage was Lucius Malfoy, who was also painfully fashionable. He barked something cruel at Seamus before adjusting his powdered wig and stepping out of the carriage nearly as daintily as his wife had.

"We've brought the notorious Voldemort with us, Iris," he greeted, stooping to kiss Iris and Pansy's hands and earning giggles of delight from the two women. "And my son, Draco."

Pansy's breast heaved as she gazed sycophantically at the young blonde man who now exited the carriage, clad in a fashionable grey ensemble that brought out just how icy grey his eyes were. Angelina and Hermione glanced at each other to roll their eyes knowingly before rushing to aid the servants the Malfoys had brought along to help the horses round back.

But Hermione's shoe caught in a rut in the road and she stumbled just as the last passenger of the carriage stepped out. She clumsily landed at the foot of the carriage as Angelina and Seamus gasped.

"Damn," Hermione muttered. She looked up to notice the fine, polished buckled shoes of the last passenger._ Voldemort_ she thought dimly, letting her eyes trail further up.

She had heard rumors but none of them had done him justice. Voldemort was younger than she had pictured, with lovely, aristocratic, finely sculpted features and dark waves that fell into stunning eyes of an unidentifiable shade. An amused smirk was curling his beautiful pale lips. He was the very epitome of what all Purebloods wished to be, with his lovely but masculine features, fashionable but restrained clothes, and evidently sharp wit.

"Damned Mudblood. So sorry, Master Voldemort, this one's a disobedient one—get _up_, you stupid bitch!" Iris shrieked shrilly. Coming back to reality, Hermione scrambled to her feet, skirts even heavier than usual with mud, just as Voldemort was laughing softly.

"Please, calm yourself, Lady Parkinson," he drawled. His voice was a smooth, sensuous, and cultured baritone. Hermione rose to her feet and instinctively met his eyes, even though she knew it'd mean the beating of her life later. "I appreciate a little spark in a servant," he added as an afterthought, stepping off the footpedal of the carriage, his eyes still locked with Hermione's. He was significantly taller than her and she had to look up at him to maintain eye-contact.

"S-sorry, sir," she stammered, her cheeks burning, as she hurried away to join Angelina and Seamus with the horses. Her blood was rushing in her ears and she for once kept her eyes to the ground like was generally expected of her. The Malfoys and Parkinsons went inside, though Hermione felt a pair of eyes on her before the door finally shut.

"You are a bloody idiot," Angelina hissed as they led the horses down the alleyway to the stable. "I can't believe you did that!"

"I didn't exactly _plan_ to trip on purpose!" Hermione retorted hotly once the shock had died off. Seamus was shaking his head.

"You're not going to be able to sit for weeks after the lashing they'll give you," he said with a low whistle. Hermione's stomach tightened forebodingly. Her only hope was that they might forget this particular insult after their dinner and leave her in peace. "Come on, we'd better get inside. You've got to serve the tea," Seamus added as they went into the kitchens.

Inside the kitchens, House Elves were frantically busy as usual. Pots bubbled over, meat roasted over spits, fires roared in stone ovens, and elves rushed in and out with water from the wells.

They planned for Angelina and the other maids to serve the tea, as they thought it best to keep Hermione out of sight after her fumble on the street, but that fell to the wayside when Angelina was needed elsewhere. Hermione found herself adjusting her lace cap that was a part of her uniform and brushing the mud off her heavy black muslin skirts. Her curls were coming free of her tight bun and her only hope was that her hair might mask her face and keep her identity less obvious.

Clutching a heavy tray of the finest china overflowing with fresh biscuits and pastries, Hermione followed another maid, Alicia, out to the drawing room, her eyes trained on the marble floors. The Parkinson home was dripping with baroque finery, as was the fashion, and her reflection gleamed back at her off of hundreds of gilded or polished surfaces as she swept along the halls.

"Try not to draw attention to yourself, and maybe they'll forget," advised Alicia grimly as they stood in front of the carved French doors to the drawing room. Through the gilded door she could hear Iris and Pansy's screeching laughter and that unfamiliar sensuous baritone. _Just keep your head down,_ Hermione told herself, bracing herself as Alicia pushed the door open, the soft warm light falling on them in counterpoint to the icy darkness of the unlit hall.

"His highness Grindelwald will listen to nothing but young Voldemort's compositions," Lucius was bragging in a smug tone. "It certainly has landed us many royal invitations, what with Voldemort staying with us."

"That's so fascinating," cooed Iris, leaning forward and displaying ample cleavage to Voldemort. Hermione sneaked a glance at Voldemort again. He was relaxing back in a brocade chair and she was again struck by his angelic features which contrasted with his devilish mouth and eyes. She almost giggled at how very _bored_ he looked. Before she could be caught, she looked downward again as she followed Alicia to place their trays on the crystal and brass tables positioned near the seats. "What sort of music do you compose, Voldemort?"

"Please, Lady Parkinson, call me Tom. Voldemort is my court name," said Voldemort in that same detached, cultured voice, though Hermione detected a hint of reluctance. _Probably enjoys having a special court-only name_, Hermione observed with some disdain.

"His compositions are quite novel. The previous court composer has been asked to step down in favor of Voldemort," informed Lucius. With a trembling hand Hermione set the tray down after Alicia. In swift, silent steps, Alicia was already heading out the door. Not trusting herself to not trip, Hermione went at a slower pace, feeling eyes on her, though she couldn't be sure whose they were.

"Not Dumbledore?" demanded Iris, aghast. "He's been the court's composer for _ages_!" she paused, realizing her mistake as the Malfoys looked disdainfully at her, and added hastily, "Not that I'm complaining. His music was dreadful."

"Forget that—Dumbledore was an old man," said Voldemort offhandedly, a smirk in his tone. "Tell me, Lady Parkinson, is that the very servant who tripped in front of the carriage earlier?"

Hermione froze, her blood running icy cold and then burning hot. _Damn_. She realized now how foolish it had been to hope she'd escape this room unscathed. Her muscles tensed as she waited for Iris' response. But she did not look down. No, Hermione was determined to keep her pride—it was one of only two things she had left of her own.

"Oh, pay her no mind, sir. Rest assured she'll be disciplined for her mistake."

Voldemort ignored Iris.

"Stop walking, girl. Tell me, what is your name?"

Hermione didn't know what to do. She held very still, keeping her eyes on the door, and tentatively opened her mouth to respond when Pansy interrupted.

"Does it matter? She's just a Mudblood," she said, sniggering derisively. _All the times I've had to clean up your disgusting chamber pot, all the times I've laced up that corset over your cow-like body, and you can't even defend me? _Not that she'd been expecting it, but the lack of sympathy from Purebloods never ceased to shock Hermione. It was as though they truly believed Mudbloods were subhuman.

"We really ought to sell her, but she came cheap, and you know how hard it is to find young Mudbloods for cheap these days," added Iris with a loud pronounced sigh. Hermione's blood boiled and she pressed her lips together to stop herself from speaking. Anything she spoke would only further damn her in their eyes and would make escape from this dreadful place all the more difficult in the future. Still, it did please her slightly when Voldemort made it clear that he was ignoring the others.

"I asked you a question, girl. What is your name? And do turn around and face me when I am speaking to you," ordered Voldemort in that same velvety voice. It was embarrassing how it made the hairs on her neck stand on end. She had heard he was a powerful presence but she had always assumed that had been mere exaggeration. She could now see how he had risen so quickly to such a high status in the eyes of the Hogsmeade court.

"Do what he says, you stupid Mudblood," Iris barked. Hermione drew in a breath and turned around to face the guests, her cheeks burning. All eyes were on her.

"My name is Hermione, sir," she said in a controlled tone, making sure she did not look directly at any of them.

"Look at me, Hermione," Voldemort commanded. Hermione slowly, haltingly, raised her eyes to his face, taking in first his pale lips and then his dark eyes flashing with a beckoning wickedness. _Must he humiliate me like this? _There was absolutely no chance she'd escape without a beating now, though had there ever really been? "That's better. You don't seem the type to take orders well," he commented in a softer, silkier tone.

"No, she's not. Just the other day I had to beat her well and good for talking back," boasted Pansy, who was desperate for the attentions of any of the men in the room. "Been a nuisance ever since we bought her."

Voldemort was making it quite clear that he was not listening to Pansy, as his eyes were still on Hermione. She yearned to look away. A smirk was curving his lips.

"Do you enjoy giving your mistress a hard time, Hermione?" he queried, arching an elegant dark brow, amusement flashing in his eyes.

"No," Hermione replied docilely. _It's more like I seem to do it whether I want to or not_, she thought inwardly, though she kept that to herself.

"Really, my lord, don't bother yourself with a filthy little slave like her. Get out, girl," ordered Iris. Swallowing, Hermione turned and obediently left the drawing room. Just before the door shut behind her, however, a new cold and drawling voice that she recognized as Draco's spoke up.

"How much do you want for her?"

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><p>"The younger Master Malfoy has paid quite a large sum of gold for you to become his newest concubine. You leave today. Pansy has quite generously lent you one of her old dresses to wear because obviously your current garments are not suitable," prattled Iris the next morning as Hermione stood before her in the parlor. Hermione's heart was beating a steady and violent tattoo against her throat as she stared in shock at her now ex-owner.<p>

"C-concubine?" she asked weakly when she had found her voice. Pansy stood next to her mother, glaring down at Hermione.

"I don't understand it either, Mudblood, but the gold he paid for you ought to pay for several new servants. Losing you is no tragedy, as you're completely worthless as a servant, but maybe you disgusting Mudbloods are better suited as little whores," sneered Iris. The old anger boiled in Hermione but she knew better than to talk back—what if Iris beat her so badly this time that the younger Malfoy reneged his offer? At least if she went with Malfoy it would be a fresh chance at escape. No, it was wisest to keep her mouth shut.

"Take the stupid dress. It's out of fashion anyway. Draco demanded that we pretty you up a bit," said Pansy sulkily, thrusting one of her old dresses at Hermione. "I told him it was impossible, but he insisted I at least try." It was an enormous amount of fabric; the finest silk money could buy and the most delicate lace. Hermione was uncommonly intelligent and recognized this gesture not as one of generosity but one of strategy. Pansy was likely hoping Draco would recognize the dress and think of Pansy every time he bedded Hermione.

_A concubine..._ the bile was steadily rising in her throat. At the less-than-tender age of twenty-two, Hermione had still managed to maintain her status as a virgin, which was shocking given that girls of her class usually had been raped by their masters before the age of sixteen. But Hermione had been carefully safeguarding her womanhood for a certain man...

...And now it was all for naught. The image of the man she loved, a rich but exceedingly kind Pureblood, rippled in her mind's eye to be replaced by the image of Draco Malfoy forcing himself on her.

Now she really might just throw up.

_Ron...I'm so sorry_, she thought miserably. The Weasleys never consorted with the Parkinsons, but she had once been owned by a family that socialized with the Weasleys regularly. For years now she had been hoping to escape into Ron's arms, but would he want her after she had spent time as a concubine of one of the men he hated most?

"What are you still doing standing there? Get out," screeched Iris, and without further ado, Hermione rushed out of the parlor, clutching the dress, tears streaming down her cheeks.

The other maids weren't speaking to her. They did not understand her sorrow at being purchased by the younger Malfoy. She drew a bath alone and washed with icy water, staring at Pansy's old dress hanging on the wall. It was a confection of pale green silk with silvery trim; she'd never worn anything remotely as costly or fashionable in her life.

Angelina was at least kind enough to help her into the dress, though she didn't utter a word to Hermione as she helped her comb her hair. The lace trim on the elbow-length sleeves did not quite mask the branding that all people of her status had—in plain scarring _Mudblood_ was emblazoned on her right forearm. To see the scar sickened her.

All too soon Hermione found herself dizzy from the constricting corset of the dress, her hair in a complex system of knots at the nape of her neck, being escorted into one of the plainer carriages the Parkinsons owned. She still felt she might vomit, so she pressed her head against the cool pane of wood as the carriage bumped and jerked along the rutted mud road towards Malfoy Manor, her stomach lurching with every movement. It was another gloomy early December day, with dustings of snow coating Hogsmeade like sugar. As a little girl she had delighted in the sight, but now she could only think of how it presented yet another obstacle in escaping—she couldn't survive in the bitter cold. Another warm season had passed without the chance of escape, and now again she'd have to wait. Would she ever be free?

With another lurch they came to a shuddering halt; they had reached Malfoy Manor. The footman helped Hermione down—she'd never been helped with anything in her life so it was a startling and unpleasant experience—just as another carriage arrived at the front of Malfoy Manor. The handsome young composer Voldemort stepped out of the carriage, clad in a dark cloak and hat.

"Ah, if it isn't Draco's new pet," he greeted, tipping his hat to Hermione as they stood in front of the enormous house, Hogsmeade bustling along around them.

And then she really did throw up. Hermione clapped a hand to her mouth before turning and rushing to a rut at the edge of the road and emptying the contents of her stomach. To her shock when she turned back to Voldemort, his dark eyes were glinting with amusement. "I must admit I've never gotten _that_ particular reaction from a lady before," he commented with a smirk.

"I-I'm not a lady," she managed to stammer hoarsely, her throat still burning from throwing up. Voldemort's expression was unreadable as he replied in a soft tone.

"You are now."

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><p>"These are your quarters. You will refer to him as Master Draco and will obey him fully," instructed the head servant, a horrible toadlike woman named Dolores Umbridge. Even the corset she wore could not contain her girth. Hermione had been a servant all of her life and knew that the only ones that got paid were the fat ones. By this simple fact she knew they were initially of very different statuses, though now with this concubine business she wasn't entirely sure of her status. Voldemort had said she was a 'lady' but was that a term used in a tongue-in-cheek manner or was it genuine? Was she now considered a lady due to her biology, or did she have new privelges?<p>

"What are my daily chores?" she inquired, wincing and actually for once missing her servant clothes. This dress was far too tight—no wonder Pansy's breast was always heaving. She had never had her cleavage on display before either and was not used to knowing that such a large expanse of her pale skin was now there for any man's viewing pleasure. Dolores—who insisted on being called Madame Umbridge—simply gave a high-pitched, girlish giggle that did not match her toadish exterior.

"Oh, only to entertain young Master Draco," she said sweetly, gesturing for Hermione to enter the opulent room. "Whenever and however he wishes," she added a bit ominously, though her tone had not changed. Hermione grimaced, the sour bite of vomit still lingering in her mouth.

"...Right."

"You'll find your new clothes in the wardrobe. You may as well get rid of that horrific garment—the Malfoys will never tolerate such a display of lack of fashion," sniffed Madame Umbridge, waving her hand disgustedly at the pale green dress. Hermione paled slightly at the thought of having to struggle into a potentially even more constricting garment. "Now, hurry up. Master Draco will return momentarily and he is not a man who likes to be kept waiting."

Umbridge turned and walked down the corridor but stopped halfway down to turn back to Hermione, a rather sinister smirk on her ugly face. "And if the older Master Malfoy wishes it, you may be asked to _entertain_ him as well. He did purchase you, after all."

Hermione did not have a chance to say something cruel in return; Umbridge disappeared round the corner. Grimacing at the older woman's warning, Hermione shut the door behind her as she entered her new quarters. The favored hue of most Purebloods was emerald, and accordingly the chambers were nearly drowning in the dark green shade. Hermione was happy to remove Pansy's old dress and with great satisfaction she kicked it into a corner, stomping on it for good measure as a way of getting out all of her pent-up hatred for the despicable brat.

Stripped bare, Hermione went to the wardrobe, drawing in deep gulps of air while she could afford to. Soon she'd be laced up in an inhumanely tight dress and would not be able to breathe so deeply. She opened the dark cherry carved doors, revealing the inside to be packed to bursting with expensive-looking garments. In resignation she chose the loosest-looking one she could find. There wasn't much time—she had to begin plotting her escape while she could.

_Around May it'll be warmth enough to survive for a few months without shelter_, she reasoned as she adjusted her hair and stared at herself in a floor-length mirror with silver trim. Her own reflection was unrecognizeable—she could almost pass for a Pureblood, though from years of servitude she was a bit too thin and wiry to really look the part of a pampered little princess.

Truth be told, sometimes she was weary of plotting for escape. But she'd never give in—she'd never become docile and accept her fate like the other Mudbloods. She refused to be a caged bird for the rest of her life.

Soon there was a knock on the door. Hermione was struck by this sudden new unexpected luxury as the door opened to reveal Draco Malfoy.

"My new toy has arrived," he drawled. His choice of wording made Hermione's cheeks flush, but she knew better than to react. _Lull him into a false sense of security and then when he trusts you... _inwardly she plotted, outwardly she pasted on a feminine, subservient smile.

"Good evening, Master Draco," she greeted in a hushed, demure voice, curtsying deeply, her new dress sweeping the floor with the movement. She heard a scoff.

"Come on, Mudblood, stop playing. Pansy told me all about you," he demanded tartly, striding across the room and gripping her chin in cold, strong fingers. His eyes were as icy and grey as the December sky and left her feeling nearly as chilled. "She told me just how disobedient you truly are," he said, lowering his voice as he raised her face to look at him. Abruptly he dropped her chin. "But none of that yet. You're accompanying me to the Opera this evening," he said imperiously, pacing about the room, examining the surroundings with faint interest.

"The opera?"

He paused to look back at her over his shoulder.

"Tom's composition is being played tonight for the King," he drawled. "Naturally as he's our guest we must go." His eyes roamed appreciatively over her form. "Good thing you're dressed already. I didn't know Mudbloods knew how to dress," he continued thoughtfully. "Be at the front door in an hour for the carriage."

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><p>Hermione clutched Draco's arm as they ascended the stairs of the Opera House, the light snow swirling around them. The Opera House was packed with finely dressed Purebloods and Hermione laughed to herself about how much (and yet how little) her life had changed over the course of one day. Did any of them know of her blood status? Draco had used a charm to cover up her branding (which was performed nonverbally so that Purebloods alone knew how to cast it) and Hermione could not remove the image of his pale hand clutching the wand—the thing she coveted most—from her mind. Mudbloods were not allowed a wand, but from a few instances (which had landed her several life-threatening beatings) Hermione knew her magic was just as strong as any Pureblood...if not <em>stronger<em>.

But now was not the time to think of that; she was escorted into a private balcony seating and immediately was handed a goblet of the finest elder wine that gold could buy. It was nothing short of amusing to be introduced as 'Lady Granger' and to be treated as equal to a Pureblood woman. Hermione's trick for survival was to keep her spirits and sense of humor up, and this was a chance to flex that particular ability.

She had never heard music before other than her various owners playing on their pianoforte or something such as that; thus when the enormous orchestra began to play Voldemort's composition, she was floored. Lilting, soft melodies gave way to booming, crashing crescendos. Hermione watched in awe as Voldemort conducted the musicians, looking lost in the music.

"He's considered a genius. Naturally, as he's the last son of the Gaunt family—the most noble blood besides the Malfoy line," confided Draco. Hermione was a bit surprised that he was bothering to talk to her at all, and not for the first time she wondered about his reasoning for choosing to buy her. The last thing Hermione was was foolish, and she knew that there had to be some specific reasoning for why he had bought her. Was it to prove to Pansy that he had no desire to wed her?

She looked for any sign of the King, but of course he had a private balcony, hidden from his subjects. It was just as well, because she enjoyed watching Voldemort. The music was surprisingly emotional and she wondered if it was a fluke. She had not gotten the impression that he was such a complex man, and it was absurd to think of any Pureblooded man having experienced another trauma in his life to imbibe his art with it. The music was moving; at times despairing, other times euphoric. What Pureblood had gone through enough trial and tribulation to know it so well?

_It's probably just that I am finding emotion in his art_. Indeed there were points in the symphony where her eyes burned with raw emotion and it surprised her. She hadn't cried since she was a very small child, and she wasn't about to start again now.

After the symphony had finished, Draco led her to a narrow hallway that ran along the edge of the Opera house to wrap behind the stage. It was very dark; the thunderous clapping of the audience could barely be heard here.

"I wanted to play with my new toy," he explained in a low hiss, pinning her against the wall, his cologne clouding around them and making her dizzy. Her instinct was to fight as her brain shut down into panic-mode. She'd spent so many years protecting her body that to be forced to just let him do as he pleased went against her very wiring. "Got a bit of fight in you, eh?" he observed as she struggled against him. She waited for him to slap her but he only watched her with those pale, pale eyes.

The dress was so tight and she was aware of his eyes flicking downward for an instant to her decollete. Then he pressed his lips to hers, the action surprising her. Hermione began to press against his chest to try and push him away, but he reached up, hands encircling her wrists, and pinned them against the wall. His tongue was foreign in hers, but luckily his grip did not hurt. Suddenly he pulled away. "Not ready to play, I see," he drawled, releasing her wrists. "We'll try again at home."

She had learned that the best defense was silence, so Hermione said nothing. She followed him back down the hall to their private balcony, where Lucius and Narcissa were congratulating Voldemort.

"Such a moving performance," sighed Narcissa, dabbing at her eye with a gloved hand holding a silk handkerchief. They turned to Draco and Hermione when they entered.

"Ah, Lady Granger. What did you think of the music?" Voldemort asked, arching his brows at her. Lucius scoffed.

"Don't make the poor Mudblood talk of such intellectual matters," he sneered with poorly-feigned sympathy. Hermione had to sharply bite down on her tongue to stop from reaming him out, and was grateful when they left the Opera House to get in their carriages; it gave her no extra chance to supply an angry retort. _Anger will get you nowhere, _she reminded herself.

Hermione was disappointed that she and Draco were in a carriage alone; even being jeered at by the elder Malfoy would have been preferable to another possible attempt at coitus. Sickened, Hermione kept her eyes trained on the floor of the carriage as they rode in silence, waiting for Draco to do something.

"Tell me, Mudblood, are you a virgin?" he asked in that cold, bored, drawling voice. Hermione's will snapped.

"That's none of your business," she said acidly, shifting away from him. Draco gave a harsh, callous laugh.

"I believe that, as your new owner, anything concerning you _is_ my business." He sighed loudly. "No matter. I'll find out tonight, I suppose."

The others had already reached Malfoy Manor. When they were invited to drink more wine in the drawing room, Draco quickly declined, and soon Hermione found herself standing in her new chambers, staring straight ahead as she felt Draco's fingers at the ties of her dress. The relief of being able to breathe comfortably was dashed by the sick feeling in her stomach. _There is nothing you can do to stop it_, she thought dully. _If only I had a wand..._ and then it came to her: it would mean sacrificing her virginity, but if she could get Draco to fall asleep in her chambers, she could easily steal his wand. And if she had a wand...

"You're awfully quiet now, Mudblood," Draco observed as he finished unlacing her gown. He roughly yanked it from her shoulders so she was standing in her complicated undergarments.

"Isn't that what you want?" she asked, admittedly intrigued by how interested he seemed in her response to him. She felt hot breath on her neck as his hands came around to rest on her hipbones.

"No. I want you to scream my name with pleasure," he said in a smirking tone, gripping her hips a bit too tightly. Her heart was pounding as he pressed his lips to the crook between her neck and shoulder, his tongue darting out to flick against her skin. "I think you _are_ a virgin," he said softly. "You're so very responsive..." His teeth ran along her skin and his hands slid from her hipbones up to her breasts, which were thankfully still covered by her undergarments. She shuddered, horrified, at the touch.

"Does it matter?" she asked sardonically, her tone drenched with a confidence that she did not have at the moment. Even with the plan of stealing his wand, she was still not happy about giving herself to a man who had bought her strictly for his own pleasure. She couldn't help but jerk out of his grasp. Teeth grazed her earlobe.

"...Yes, I suppose it does," he sighed, his breath rushing over her skin. Suddenly he pulled away. "I'll not bed you tonight."

"Wh—" Hermione began, but the door slammed behind him as he left. She blanched. Had he seen through her plan?

_But what if I could escape tonight without him bedding me_? she wondered, hope burning deep within. Perhaps she could save herself for Ron after all...

She hurriedly stripped out of her undergarments and pulled on a lace and cotton nightgown that had been supplied. She clambered into bed and waited hours, until the sounds of Hogsmeade died down and night was truly upon them. Blinking in the darkness, Hermione rifled about her wardrobe as silently as she could, looking for the most sensible things to take. It was too cold to survive now, but what if she went straight to Ron? Surely he would take her in without question; they were in _love__, _after all. Her desperation at saving her womanhood eclipsed her sensibility that now was the _very worst_ time to escape. She could not bear the idea of being bedded by a man she did not love. The memory of his hands on her breasts and tongue on her neck propelled her to keep going, to keep trying to escape.

She found some vaguely sturdy-looking slippers and the heaviest dress she could find, as well as a cloak. After folding one of the blankets to use as extra warmth on the streets (it was a long way to the Weasley mansion) she cast one last glance about the room before steeling her will and pushing through the door.

Malfoy manor was not silent at night—there were strange creaking noises that made her heart give little funny jumps and she was constantly freezing to look around because she was sure she had _felt_ something brush her. Was it a ghost? _No, stupid, you've **seen** ghosts before,_ she told herself a bit irritably. _No need to become a blithering idiot just because you're a bit scared_.

_And you have a right to be scared, because this is probably the stupidest thing you've ever done_, she added mentally. When she came to the end of a hallway with no sign of a staircase, she was beginning to feel even stupider than she had before. _I just walked up the stairs with Malfoy not more than a few hours ago_! Scowling, she turned and began creeping back along the hall, feeling her way along the walls for some sign of where she ought to go.

She was so deeply concentrating on finding the stairs that she missed that one of the doors was slightly ajar, and a chink of light was seeping from it. Later, she would wonder how she could have possibly missed it. But for now, all she could do after leaning her weight against it was tumble inside with a shrill shriek.

"Damn," she hissed at herself, looking up to see whose room she had burst into, to find a tub filled with water that was allowing steam to curl up around it. The young composer Tom Voldemort was standing in the tub. It seemed he had been just as shocked as she at her sudden appearance, because it took him a second to let out a yell of surprise and try to cover himself up.

In the flickering candlelight she had seen something on his glistening forearm...something she had on her own forearm. Hermione found she couldn't draw breath as she stared at Voldemort rather owlishly in shock.

"Y-you're a—"

"You stupid girl, shut the bloody door!" hissed Voldemort as he crouched in the tub, his lean body—and the branding—now hidden from view. Hermione flushed bright red as she scrambled to close the door she had just burst in through. When she turned back to stare at Voldemort, she leaned against it, her heart pounding.

"You're a Mudblood," she accused. "I saw it. I know I saw it," she said frantically in a low voice. The lovely composer narrowed his eyes at her before turning and grasping a towel.

"Turn away," he ordered acidly. His tone was such that Hermione even obeyed, though her breathing was still coming in short gasps. This shock—it was unbelievable—the new favorite of Grindelwald was nothing more than a filthy Mudblood?

By accident she sneaked a glance, noting the way his dark locks clung to his skin from the steam of the water, curling slightly at the nape of his neck and sticking in damp tendrils across his forehead. His pale skin was still wet and water ran in rivulets along his slim but muscled torso. It was unusual for a man to be muscled—what physical work did Purebloods have to do?—but now she knew the reasoning behind Voldemort's fine physique. Blushing, she looked down again, waiting for his command.

"Listen, little girl, what you saw tonight—it never happened," he hissed. She looked up to see a towel wrapped round his slim hips as he advanced on her, his features contorted into a mask of rage. A spike of fear shunned any attraction she might have felt at seeing his nude form, and now she pressed back against the door as he strode towards her, a long, thin wand clutched in his elegant fingers.

"You aren't going to Obliviate me," she said shrilly when she had found her voice, her eyes darting between his wand and his handsome face. "Isn't it a relief for someone to know your secret? Besides—I-I'll scream!" The trembling in her voice made that threat a whole lot less believable. Accordingly, Voldemort was smirking down at her.

"And then you'd be forced to explain exactly why you were in here in the first place. Longing to have a go at the only bachelor more eligible than Draco Malfoy in all of Hogsmeade? Or..." he lowered his voice to a whisper, bringing his head in closer to hers, "...running away and got lost?"

Hermione licked her lips, as her mouth had become quite dry.

"I-I was just looking around," she stammered, trying in vain to maintain her brave facade. She chanced a glance downward to see the raised flesh of his branding. The skin around it was grotesquely scarred as well. "Tried to get rid of it, didn't you?" she asked knowingly, feeling slightly less trepidation when she saw the products of his suffering and how it mirrored her own. She imagined how she'd feel had she been in his place. "It doesn't come off, does it? You can't even curse it off."

The tip of the wand was pressed at her throat. Hermione looked up, meeting his eyes again. "We're in the same boat here," she reasoned aloud, watching his face for some kind of sympathy. So far she found none. "We're both Mudbloods. I need to run away, you need to keep your identity a secret."

"On the contrary, girl—you _don't_ need to run away." He was arching his elegant dark brows at her now. She waited with a violent heartbeat for his next move, and he surprised her when he lowered his wand and turned away. "Besides," he said over his shoulder, "Now is the very worst time to run away. You'll freeze to death—no shelter readily welcomes a Mudblood for free...especially a virginal one."

"I-I was hoping to get away before he... you know." She looked down at her hands and back up at Voldemort. The danger seemed to have passed...for now. "So you're not going to Obliviate me?" she asked weakly. Voldemort stepped behind a dressing screen.

"No. The brat will know something's been done...he's not nearly as stupid as he looks," drawled Voldemort. He reappeared wearing a loose white shirt and fresh britches.

"Then how do you know I'll keep my silence?" she wondered, watching him as he cleared his mess from the bath. He had done it instinctively, in the way a Pureblood never would have. Tom stopped and looked back at her. A sly grin was playing on his lovely lips.

"I'll keep mine," he said simply. He paused, looking at her thoughtfully. "But you're right—going on honor is always foolish."

Her quick mind had already come up with the terms. Hermione steeled herself again before speaking.

"I want a wand," she said, "and what do you want?"

"Nothing you could give me," Tom replied, sniggering at her derisively. "And if you really think I'd be so foolish as to give you mine—"

"I'll help you, with whatever you need," she said desperately, advancing on him. "I'll do whatever petty little tasks you need, and then you can go out and buy me a wand. And then when I can, I'll pay you whatever gold you want."

Voldemort said nothing; he finished clearing up his things and turned to regard her shrewdly.

"The wand chooses the wizard, as they say. You'd have to be present to purchase a wand. Besides, the answer is no—just recall that I can tell anyone anytime I wish of your attempt at escape tonight." His voice was at its silkiest. Hermione pressed her back against the door again, this time not for him to corner her but so she could bar him from leaving.

"And you don't know the spell to hide your scar," she countered frantically, her hair coming free of its design in her wild desperation, "Purebloods are told about that glamour when they are very young, and you've never been able to ask I bet, because it would shatter your facade! So if I gave the Purebloods reason to believe—"

"_Silencio,_" hissed Voldemort. Hermione was enraged that he'd use his power in such a cavalier way on her, but she froze as he had when she heard creaking noises. "Get behind the screen," mouthed Voldemort just as a knock sounded on the door.

"Enter," he said in a cool voice when Hermione was masked by the dressing screen. She held her breath, willing herself to become invisible. Sometimes she'd had some amount of control over her own magic, even without a wand...could she do it now?

"Voldemort. I'm looking for my Mudblood—have you seen her?" demanded Draco imperiously. Hermione's blood boiled at the sound of _'my Mudblood.'_ "I heard voices."

"You must be in dire need of sleep, then, if you'll forgive me for saying it," drawled Voldemort in evident amusement. Through the weave of the screen, she saw him staring down his nose at Draco, arms crossed over his chest. _He's trying to hide the scar_, she deduced. "But perhaps she went down to the kitchens to look for work to do?" he suggested lightly. "You know how those Mudbloods need to keep busy."

"Or maybe she was trying to steal some food," said Draco sourly. "Fine."

"You're welcome, Draco," said Voldemort rather cheekily as the door slammed with Draco's leaving. When all was silent, Tom came round behind the screen. "Hurry up. He's going to be mad if he doesn't find you soon," he warned. Hermione glowered.

"What about our deal?" she demanded. Tom simply laughed callously and gestured for her to leave, pointing to the door. Hermione longed to argue until she got her way, but even she knew that it was foolish to keep Draco waiting for too long. With a last caustic glower, she clenched her fists and slipped out of the room.

In spite of her anger, she knew she had found a much better means of escape now—all she had to do, she realized as she slipped out of her clothes and tossed them into the wardrobe haphazardly, was convince Voldemort to help her obtain a wand.

...And with his terrible secret, she couldn't help but think that he'd give in to her soon.


	2. Act Two: Adagio

Lacrimosa

Author's Note: Thanks to everyone who reviewed! **And thanks for all the support! **

A historical note: I'm fudging some history for this fic. Voldemort's compositions are meant to have romantic-era undertones, sort of as though he is the bridge between the classic and romantic era. HOWEVER this is at odds with the tulip craze that is mentioned in this chapter (you'll see). For history buffs...I apologize. But I feel like the two eras weren't _that_ far apart and ostensibly, there could still be the hype about tulips, right?

But any notes you guys have about the historical aspect of this story I'd love to hear. Frankly the only history I know is from reading way too much historical fiction and having a wikipedia obsession.

Disclaimer: the HP universe does not belong to me; I am just borrowing.

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><p><strong>Act Two: Adagio<strong>

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><p>"There you are, Mudblood," came a sneering voice from the doorway of her new chambers. Hermione looked up from the book she had found to see Draco peering at her, his expression unreadable. "Get dressed and come to the drawing room; we will be attending a tour of the Royal Gardens today."<p>

Hermione paled at his words; she had been hoping to corner Voldemort again today and demand that he reconsider her idea. She was also not thrilled at another carriage ride alone with Draco, but perhaps she was being too hard on him? Most men in his situation by now would have had her several times, and yet he had so far held back at her every sign of protest. Was he truly compassionate? ...Or was something else going on?

"Are you quite sure it's wise to have a Mudblood concubine with you to meet Grindelwald?" she pointed out, hoping to sound offhand. Draco's expression darkened.

"Don't tell me what's wise and what's not, stupid Mudblood. Wear the emerald dress; you're coming with me whether you like it or not and that's that," he hissed, turning shortly on his heel. _Which emerald dress? _thought Hermione sarcastically, though she did not let him see her rolling her eyes. He left as she sat considering how it might feel to meet Grindelwald, the orchestrator of her dismal fate as a Mudblood.

It was he who had forced all non-Purebloods into submission, after all. The hatred for Mudbloods was not exactly a recent development, but at least before, most half-bloods had been safe. Grindelwald despised all non-Purebloods without reprieve. Could she hold her tongue in his presence?

_Yes, because otherwise I'll be beheaded for treason and death is not exactly freedom, is it?_ she pondered as she forced herself into one of the too-tight dresses. It was emerald, as requested, with long tapered sleeves and a square neckline. The full, bustling skirt annoyed her to no end, and again, it was irritating to have so much skin on display. She kept looking down to be sure that certain things were staying under wraps.

_Thank Merlin for cloaks,_ she thought, picking out an elegant forest green cloak. This part of the outfit she did appreciate—unlike the practically useless and scratchy wool cloaks that slaves got, this one actually seemed to keep her warm. With a last bit of adjusting of her wild hair (a useless endeavor, as always) Hermione left her bedroom.

Voldemort and the Malfoys were standing in the drawing room, both cloaked already, waiting for her. Lucius' powdered wig was even bigger than it had been two nights ago, and Narcissa's had a ridiculous little toy bird residing in it. Hermione had to press her lips together and avert her eyes to keep from laughing, but she mistakenly met Voldemort's eyes and she realized they were each trying to not laugh at Narcissa and Lucius' expense. He was again clad in the simplest dark waistcoat she had ever seen, with a dark cloak and fine silver clasp. The items looked finely-made but were not showy, unlike Draco's waistcoat which was dark green and embroidered with silver threads.

"Found the stairs without much difficulty, Lady Granger?" asked Tom in an innocent, cheery voice. Hermione vowed to kick him later or some similar punishment but for the moment smiled sweetly.

"It was no trouble, sir," she said in her most demure, feminine voice. Draco was looking a bit wary of their exchange and immediately grasped at her arm through her heavy cloak.

"Come, it's time to go," he snapped, shooting Voldemort a scalding look before practically dragging Hermione to the front door. There was only one carriage waiting, and Hermione was honestly rather relieved, for she was not looking forward to Draco questioning her about her whereabouts from the prior night. Draco forgot to help her up into the carriage—with those heavy skirts, it was unfortunately necessary—and after some reprimanding from both Lucius and Narcissa about how to treat a lady, Hermione was practically thrown inside. Soon she was pressed uncomfortably in between Draco and Voldemort. Lucius and Narcissa sat opposite.

"I have heard that Bella will be accompanying you to Grindelwald's ball, Voldemort," commented Lucius as they rocked and jerked along towards the castle.

"Naturally. She has been chosen as the star of my next opera. She's perfect for the part."

There was something smirkingly smug about Voldemort's expression; Hermione wondered if there was some joke she was missing, though by the look on the others' faces, they weren't picking up on the composer's little private joke either.

"Really? What is the opera about, may I ask?" It seemed rare for Narcissa to ever speak; her voice was soft and whispery but as icy as her husband's and son's voices, if not more so.

"I can't tell you now; it ought to be a proper surprise," said Voldemort loftily. He winked at Narcissa and Hermione was relieved that the older woman did not flirt or blush back.

"Aunt Bella can sing? I didn't know that," interrupted Draco in rather disgusted tones. Hermione felt a little jolt beside her; it seemed Voldemort was trying very hard not to laugh. He caught her eye before looking away quickly. "Looks like we're here."

Indeed, they had reached the front gate of the gardens. An enormous green-and-silver carriage was already waiting. Hermione had never seen anything so overly decorated in her life—and this coming from a girl who had been owned by the Parkinsons! _That must be Grindelwald's carriage..._ Even though Hermione despised Grindelwald, the idea of meeting a King did tighten her stomach a bit. _Just remember that even if Grindelwald were overthrown, all of the Purebloods would still try to maintain the enslavement of Mudbloods. He is not the only oppressor. _

Notably this time Draco was much more of a gentleman and very carefully helped Hermione out of the carriage, rather as though she were made of glass. The treatment was annoying because she preferred to keep her autonomy, but again, sadly necessary. _Maybe one of these days the fashions from Paris will be less cumbersome..._

...but she wasn't going to get her hopes up.

"Your Majesty," said Lucius breathlessly. Narcissa and Hermione both swept into deep curtsies, their heads bowed, and the men bowed low...though out of the corner of her eye, Hermione noted that Voldemort's 'bow' was rather more of a nod. She decided to file that observation away for later; it was interesting how little respect he apparently had for the royal family. _But I guess if he was enslaved at one point... he'd resent them as much as I do._ Hermione was again filled with the unbearable curiosity about the handsome composer that had plagued her all night. She wanted to hear his life story, wanted to hear how he had escaped, but would she ever find out?

"Young Master Draco, is it?" came a voice that was both gravelly and playful. Hermione sneaked a glance at Grindelwald. He was the oldest person she had ever seen, with a face as lined as an ancient tree and long grey hair with a matching beard that was tucked into his heavy emerald cloak. He hardly seemed fit to rule such a large kingdom, but when she saw his eyes, she noted how youthful and sharp they seemed.

"Y-yes, your majesty," uttered Draco.

"And Lord Voldemort. The man of the hour," continued King Grindelwald, sounding rather amused. Hermione watched Voldemort meet Grindelwald's eye—surely that was a faux pas?—and return the smirk.

"Only hour, your highness?" he asked coolly. "I rather like to think man of the _century_."

Hermione and the others held their breaths, waiting for Grindelwald to be offended by Tom's arrogance, but his amusement only deepened.

"You're much more entertaining than Albus ever was," he said cryptically before turning, his elegant cloak swirling about his shoulders in a manner that was surprisingly graceful for such an ancient-looking man. "Come, I want to show you all my gardens," he announced, leading them through the gates, at which several gentlemen-in-waiting were prepared to open and lead the way. "Walk with me, ladies and gentlemen," he ordered. Everyone rushed to keep up with him as they looked through the gardens.

Draco and his family seemed enormously bored by the viewing of the gardens, but Hermione was enthralled. She had heard of the new tulips from the Netherlands and of some of the more exotic plants of Spain and even as far as Africa, but as she had had no pictures, she could not properly picture them in her imagination.

But here... even in the middle of December, fantastic colors exploded from every corner of these gardens. Fountains of the most elegant sculptures dotted the paths every so often, and the air was heavy and fragrant with the perfume of the flowers.

"At least Lady Granger appreciates the beauty," commented Voldemort when they were nearing the end, and Hermione was quite sorry indeed that it was over. She was dying to ask Grindelwald hundreds of questions about the rare flora but knew it was her place to hold her tongue. She glanced at Voldemort, who had hung back as Lucius and Narcissa gushed at the King. Draco was a few paces ahead, looking rather sulky.

"It's all very fantastic, isn't it? I do wish I could ask the King about these," she sighed, gazing down at a tulip so dark purple that it nearly appeared a velvety black. A thought struck her and she turned away from the lovely flowers and lowered her voice. "Have you reconsidered my offer?"

Tom's eyes slid warily to Draco and the others, and he subtly urged her to keep walking. Amongst these rich (and royal) Purebloods, she and Voldemort may as well have been two gazelles in a lions' den. It was unwise to attract attention to themselves.

"Of course not. I have no reason to help you," he hissed as they walked towards Draco. Hermione's temper flared.

"Have you no sympathy for a— for a fellow—" she halted at his sharp glare at her.

"No. It's not my problem if you can't do anything for yourself," he said coolly. Now they had reached Draco and they both pasted on pleasant smiles, though all Hermione felt like doing was shoving Voldemort into one of the fountains scattered among the gardens, and for a happy moment she pictured doing just that.

"This is so stupid. Who cares about flowers?" Draco demanded sulkily, picking at a noteworthy cerise-colored tulip listlessly. Hermione winced; she had a fair idea of how much tulips could cost, especially rare hybrids.

"I do, and you'd do well to look like you were absolutely mad with your love for flowers, considering our host," pointed out Hermione, nodding towards Grindelwald up ahead. Draco looked like he was considering telling her off or hitting her, but in the end he just turned shortly on his heel and stormed off to catch up with his parents and the King.

"You're probably the most motherly concubine I've ever seen," observed Voldemort as they hastened to catch up. Hermione shot him a glower.

"Don't talk to me. I hate you," she spat in a prim voice. Voldemort sniggered at her. "We're not speaking."

"Fine by me, but I bet you can't keep silent for more than ten minutes," he said in a low voice just as they reached the others. Hermione opened her mouth to dispense a bossy retort but quickly clamped it shut when she recalled she wasn't speaking to him.

At this point, Hermione really did really really hate him. A lot.

* * *

><p>For the rest of the afternoon, Voldemort's caustic words replayed themselves over and over in her head until Hermione was sure she was going mad. <em>It's not my problem if you can't do anything for yourself.<em>

And then a very odd sequence of events took place.

Before supper that night, Draco came into her chambers and pressed her down against the bed, his tongue pushing past her lips. Hermione whimpered and tried to struggle, but his weight was on her and the angle was too difficult for her to prise him off of her. He was forcing her thighs apart with his knee and Hermione's stomach was tying itself into knots. She felt something probing at her abdomen; was it...?

Luckily the activity was cut short by Madame Umbridge coming by to announce that it was time for supper for Draco. As she was not part of the family, Hermione was to eat her supper privately.

She was sickened and scared. Without contemplating her actions, Hermione grabbed the evergreen cloak and fled, Voldemort's words still echoing in her head, her skin crawling with the memory of Draco's touches.

This time it was much easier to escape unseen. Malfoy Manor was filled with little passageways, and Hermione could be quite strategic when it suited her. Soon she was in the darkening twilight evening, flurries stinging her bare cheeks. With a rush of adrenaline, she didn't look back, and she began hurtling along the streets, weaving her way in and out of carriages and carts and peddlers. She doubted she would attract much attention, as her cloak was dark enough that she blended in on the still-crowded streets.

Even after all these years, she still recalled the way to the Weasley Manor. The way to it was nearly imprinted on her very heart, and by the time she reached the slightly shabby manor, her skirts and cloak were filthy with mud, her hair had come out of its neat design, and her lungs were burning with the exertion of having run so many miles.

She hated the idea of meeting Ron again, after so long, looking such a mess, but this was not the time for vanity. Steeling her will, Hermione slowly approached the manor, though a patch of warm light coming through one of the front windows caught her eye. In the darkness, Hermione approached the window with a perverse hunger. Her eyes greedily took in the familiar yet unfamiliar shock of red hair, gangling limbs, and kind blue eyes.

She pressed her hands against the frigid glass as she watched. The Weasleys had had dinner already, then, as they were now gathered in the drawing room. _Ron_... the relief she felt at seeing the man she had thought was her soulmate was shattered by the sight that confronted her now.

In the warm light of the Weasley Manor drawing room, Ron sat with a very pretty and familiar young woman, apparently teaching her how to play a game. It was Lavender Brown, another rich Purelood. Their matching gold rings glinted in the light.

So he hadn't waited, then.

_Married..._ how had she not heard of it? It must have been recent.

She could not think, she could not breathe. Hermione quite suddenly felt winded, doubling over as though she had been kicked in the stomach, her hands clawing at the mud beneath her feet as she gasped for air. _Don't cry. Don't cry. Don't cry._

"There you are," came a familiar baritone voice. Hermione scrunched her eyes shut tightly, not willing to believe that she had been caught, on top of everything else. "You're filthy. The brat's on his way as well; he was searching the other end of the road."

In resignation Hermione looked back to find Voldemort seated on a fine black horse, his skin strikingly pale against his dark cloak and hat. "You're a foolish little girl," he added coldly. Crouching on her knees in the mud, her hair and robes soaked from the snow, her body heaving with the effort to breathe past the shock, Hermione certainly felt foolish, and beyond humiliated. The aftereffects of the adrenaline rush left her weak and dizzy.

"H-he's married," she managed to choke out. "He didn't come for me." She didn't know why she was telling him these things; perhaps she was still in shock.

Voldemort watched her silently for a moment, the snow swirling in the dark night around them. She had not yet found the strength to stand.

"You were banking everything on a man coming to save you?" he asked in disgusted disbelief. Hermione shook her head.

"No. But I thought he'd wait for me too," she said, willing herself to rise to her feet. "He said he loved me," she added, though now she saw how hollow and foolish the words were. How stupid could she have possibly been, to truly imagine that Ron had been different from the rest? She despised herself. For all her intellect, she had really believed that he might come save her.

"What a surprise. A man says something and does another," observed Voldemort harshly, his dark eyes flashing with something. "...A foolish little girl indeed. Perhaps it's for the best—or are you too stupid to learn from your own mistakes?"

"I hate you," said Hermione bitterly. Another figure was coming into view; Draco was approaching. "I'm not stupid."

"Your actions suggest otherwise, girl."

"I'm just... I was just..." What had she been thinking, exactly? She had waited all those years for Ron and he had never come—why had she held onto any hope? Ron was kind, but had he ever proven himself to be a dependable man? Why had she put her faith in a Pureblood?

Her self-hatred was overpowering.

Just then, Draco arrived, swathed in an emerald green cloak and riding a pristine white horse.

"There you are. How dare you escape, you stupid Mudblood. Did you really think you could get away? After the exorbitant amount of gold that we paid for you?" demanded Draco.

In resignation Hermione dropped to her knees. She knew the only thing that could save her now from a harsh beating—or worse—was a carefully constructed apologetic demeanor. That and she felt so weak she didn't feel much like standing. "What are you doing in front of the _Weasley_ manor, anyway?" His cold, drawling voice was dripping with pure disgust.

"I would rather not speak of it. I am sorry, Master Draco. This will not happen again," she said dully.

"You have inconvenienced me as well as Voldemort," snapped Draco angrily, "because I was not sure I could find you on my own. You took me from my supper and Voldemort from his compositions. You attempted to escape. This will not go without serious punishment, Mudblood."

She bowed her head, not saying anything. Her humiliation and grief were too much, and yet, underneath that, her temper still was sparking.

"I apologize, Master Draco," she replied.

Hermione looked up to see Draco studying her with something she could not place in his eyes. For a moment they regarded each other as she felt Voldemort watching them.

"Get up. We must get you indoors—if you die of cold then you will have truly been a waste," Draco said finally, dismounting his horse to help her on it. Without another word, she watched Voldemort's horse rear as he turned swiftly and galloped down the streets ahead of them, back to Malfoy Manor, his cloak flying behind him in the wind like a shadow.

Draco held her against him as they too galloped along the streets, the snow stinging her face. The icy pain was a relief, however, and distracted her from her depression.

So she could not place any hope in Ron any longer. And without marrying Ron as her goal, did she have any reason—other than her own dignity—to resist Draco's advances? She was his concubine, after all, and yet she had done nothing of that sort. While she despised the idea of giving in, she now realized that to continue to refuse him could possibly result in a much darker fate.

The only option was to give in and try to plan anew.

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><p>"You are a disgrace, Mudblood." <em>lash. <em>

"If you ever run away again, we will use the Cruciatus curse on you." _sting._

"Stupid Mudblood." _slap._

Hermione whimpered as she lay on her stomach, the cool air stinging the marks from the lashing she had received. At least the beating was over now. Draco had deemed her unfit to be used as a concubine tonight, so she was mercifully left alone. She couldn't help but notice that he had not participated in the beating, and that he had stopped it prematurely. And wouldn't most men not care whether she had been whipped and carry on with using her anyway? Draco had passed it off as being disgusted by the marks, but something in her wondered at whether it had been an excuse.

...Why was Draco not just using her for what he had bought her for?

She couldn't figure it out. She longed to question him but knew it would yield no helpful answers.

Again her mind returned to the memory of Ron's wedding band, and the pain was so much greater than the physical pain of the beatings that it eclipsed them entirely, and all she could do was scrunch her eyes shut to prevent herself from sobbing. When the urge to cry had passed, she let out a sigh of relief and turned her head to stare out the window at the full moon.

There was a click that she recognized as a key turning in a lock. _Perhaps Draco decided I was fit to be fucked after all, _she thought dimly, not moving at all. She was far too injured from the beating to resist him effectively at this point. The footsteps were not those of Draco, however; they were slower, almost ponderous in nature.

"Still think you're so clever?"

_Voldemort._

Her humiliation at having been caught during such a painful, private moment returned afresh. She said nothing, willing him to go away. "...Maybe next time you'll be more careful about when you choose to run away," he added in a much softer, barely audible voice.

In spite of the anger coursing through her, Hermione's curiosity had been piqued.

"You still think I'll try again?" she asked when she had found her voice. She was well-aware that her bare back was revealed to him, as she had pulled the covers up to her hips, but there was nothing she could do about it now.

"I admit I noticed something about you that day you fell in front of the carriage," he said. She could hear the smirk in his voice. "You're not a tenth as clever as I, but you're certainly as determined. A thing for which I am compelled to credit you, to be sure."

"A tenth? I'm honored. I would have thought you'd estimate closer to a hundredth," Hermione parried a bit wryly. _So he thinks we're similar people then..._

_But we're not. I'd never be this cruel to a fellow Mudblood, _she seethed. After a moment, he spoke again. His tone had changed.

"I must admit I'm not here for leisure. The brat has demanded that I give you music lessons, and as I am rather beholden to the Malfoys at this time, it would behoove me to acquiesce. You begin tomorrow."

His distaste for both having to fulfill the request and having to be beholden to the Malfoys was quite evident in his voice. Hermione perked up and, clutching the blankets to her form, she sat up to look at him in disbelief. For now she could ignore the horrific searing from the lashes opening anew.

"Music lessons? But why?"

Voldemort's lips curved into a smirk as he stared down at her.

"I don't grasp the meaning of it either, but it is as it is. Rise early tomorrow; I have a busy day so we will start after breakfast."

Without another word, he turned and left her room as Hermione stared after him even after he had closed the door.

_Music lessons..._?


	3. Act Three: Allegro

Lacrimosa

Author's Note: YOU GUYS ARE AWESOME! *teary* I love each and every one of you. If I had plushies of you guys (awkward) I've be hugging them right now! When I have a bit more free time, I shall respond to your awesome, amazing reviews. Your ideas and guesses about the plot are so intelligent that I feel like a dummy 8D (which I personally view as a good thing; it's making me think harder on my choices for this story).

A few notes on some questions I got:

-Lacrimosa means 'weeping' in Latin and also is the title of arguably one of Mozart's better-known works. I believe it's also meant as a funeral mass. (Make of that what you will.)

-Yes, there are parallels to be drawn between Voldemort and Mozart as composers.

-A final note: remember, it's not just Muggle-borns who are enslaved in this world...it's half-bloods too.

**warning: there is plot-relevant smut in this chapter, but it has been moved to my blog. You can find the link on my profile. **

Disclaimer: the HP universe does not belong to me; I am just borrowing.

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><p><strong>Act Three: Allegro<strong>

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><p>Hermione woke that morning with a sense of purpose that she had not had in a very long time. She didn't realize how half-hearted she had felt about her previous escape plans until now, and she wondered if the fact that, deep down, she had sort of believed she would fail in escaping had led to that very failure. Like a self-fulfilling prophecy, perhaps her deeply-buried notions about her own capabilities had been the culprits of previous failures.<p>

But not anymore. After dressing that morning, Hermione headed out to Voldemort's chambers. The lacing of the dress dug into the wounds from her beating, but even that could not make her good mood fade. In fact, it only strengthened her determination. She knew it was foolish to dwell on her grief about Ron, so she simply did not allow herself to think of it now at all. It was time to move on, and getting beaten down by her own pain would only hamper her end goal of freedom.

As she walked down the dark hall, the faint sounds of a pianoforte began to float towards her. Smiling at the playful tune, Hermione found the correct door and opened it without knocking, very carefully.

Today was a sunny day and consequently the whole room was filled with sparkling bright wintry sunlight. By one of the large windows was a small piano and, seated at it and playing quite virtuosically, was Voldemort himself. He must have just risen because he was only clad in plain britches and a loose white shirt, his hair a bit mussed from sleep. She watched him narrow his eyes at a piece of paper above the keys as he played. His elegant, pale hands darted rapidly about the keys as though they had a life of their own.

He paused and let out a growled oath before dipping a nearby quill in ink and adding something to his parchment.

"Good morning," Hermione greeted, deciding this was a proper time to interrupt. Voldemort didn't even pause; the only indication she had for a moment that he had heard her was that his eyes flickered briefly to her.

"I was wondering whether you were going to announce yourself any time this century, Lady Granger," he drawled as he set aside the quill. Hermione's cheeks flushed.

"Y-you knew I was there? You looked so lost in your music," she stammered embarrassedly as she stepped further into the room. Voldemort snorted.

"You must be an idiot. Have you ever not noticed when there was someone standing mere metres away from you after having quite loudly and clumsily entered your room?"

Hermione got the hint.

"Sorry," she said crossly, forgetting her embarrassment. "I was _trying_ to be polite."

"And failing, as customary for you it seems. Go stand there; we shall begin our lesson now." Biting back a retort, Hermione stomped over to the desired spot sort of behind the piano, so that she was looking across it at Voldemort. "Don't be so cheerful about it, Lady Granger," he teased as he set aside the parchment he had been writing on. From this angle she could see it was a very carefully-constructed portion of a composition; there were so many notes on each line that she was intimidated.

"That must take forever to copy out," she sympathized. It was impressive that he had managed to keep it so neat. She heard him scoff.

"I never make copies," he said disinterestedly as he closed the bottle of ink. Hermione balked.

"But your compositions...they're worth so much—what if someone stole them?"

"They came from my head, didn't they? I can usually still remember most of a composition years later. Besides, ideas are cheap. Lose one song, write ten more."

Hermione was in awe of his insouciance about his own talents. "Close your jaw, Lady Granger. That expression does your features no favors," he informed sharply. "Now, let us begin. Can you sing a scale?"

"I doubt I've ever sung in my life," said Hermione a bit coolly, annoyed now, especially after his comment about her face. Voldemort sighed loudly.

"Repeat after me," he said heavily. "If you can possibly manage."

And then he began to sing a scale, his voice rich and effortless and leaving goosebumps over her flesh. "Can you try that?" he drawled before smirking. Hermione bristled.

"Yes, I do think I can manage," she snapped primly. Then her cheeks flushed. Honestly, she had never sung before in her life. Tentatively she opened her mouth and tried to imitate the scale Voldemort had sung. Pleased with herself after she had finished, she awaited Voldemort's praise, but when she looked back he had disappeared from view. She walked around the piano to find him slumped on the keys, his shoulders shaking.

Bloody hell, was he _laughing_ at her?

"I-I'm sorry," he apologized in between gasping fits of laughter, holding his hand up, "It's just—that was the worst, absolute worst—oh god it was like crows being tortured to death, or—or no, better yet, when a drooling child is given a violin to play—a swirl of agony—"

"I get it," Hermione said hotly, her nostrils flaring. "That was the first time I've ever sung in my life!" she said defensively, glowering at him as she waited for him to control himself again.

"I can believe that much," he said finally, straightening, still apparently trying not to laugh. "Well, since you'll drive people to suicide with a voice like that, perhaps it would be better to keep to the piano. Come, sit with me."

It was a bit of a tight fit on the little bench, as her damned voluminous skirts seemed to take up approximately most of the bench. When all was said and done, she was awkwardly pressed against his side as he took her fingers and positioned them over the keys. "Let's see if you can at least play a scale without too much misery," he pondered. His hands were cool and dry, the fingertips lightly calloused. Hermione swallowed.

It wasn't that she was _attracted_ to Voldemort, necessarily, but he was certainly a beautiful man. This whole situation was so very foreign to her. Every time she looked at him for approval, she was forced to look him right in the eye, as they were mere inches from each other. This close she could smell the scent of his skin and see the flecks of color that made up his tumultuously dark eyes.

She managed to play a scale well enough that he only made a handful of rude comments, and soon they each forgot to be rude as he taught her the basics of piano.

Hermione had decided that she would wait a few lessons to ask him about their potential deal. She had thought it would be difficult to hold back from asking, but she found herself enjoying the lesson so much that before she knew it, there was a slow, languorous knock on the door, as though the person on the other side were trying to be funny. She found herself quite disappointed that they were being interrupted so soon.

"Enter," said Voldemort, his hands still covering hers mid-scale. The door opened (now Hermione could see how very loud and obvious the clicking of the knob turning was, and her cheeks flamed) to reveal a striking woman—striking for a _number _of reasons.

She wore a tight black silk dress with skirts so large that she had to turn a bit to enter Voldemort's chambers. The corset of the dress put her ample cleavage on display and her powdered wig was nearly as large as her skirts. To Hermione's horror, there was even a glittering bejeweled spider brooch nestled in the wig. She likely had naturally black hair, for her eyes and brows were nearly black. Her eyes were hooded, giving her a sensuous expression that seemed like men might find it rather beckoning.

"Ah, Lady Lestrange," greeted Voldemort as the woman sauntered into the room, her skirts swishing around her. "Lady Granger, this is the star of my newest opera. Lady Lestrange, this is Draco's—"

"I've heard," she said disinterestedly, looking down her nose at Hermione briefly, disdain curling her lips into a disgusted smirk. But when she looked at Voldemort, her breast began to heave sensually and her eyes widened to a sycophantic gaze. Hermione had to stop herself from snorting at the display. "Oh, my Lord, you look so handsome today. You always do—"

"I'll just be off, then," interrupted Hermione flatly. "Thank you for the lesson. I truly appreciated it," she said to Voldemort before hastily scrambling off the bench. Voldemort was regarding her with faint amusement.

"Tomorrow, same time," he ordered as Hermione left the room, brushing past Bellatrix as she went. Once outside, she shut the door behind her but remained with her ear pressed to the door for a moment, curious about Bellatrix Lestrange.

"A Mudblood concubine? Why in Merlin's name should a fine young man like Draco resort to such lowliness?" sneered Bellatrix loftily. "She wasn't even pretty," she added a bit sulkily. Hermione wondered if this jibe had more to do with Bellatrix's jealousy that she had found Voldemort teaching another woman and less to do with Hermione's actual countenance.

"Someday, Draco will inherit this manor, and will be partially in charge of your finances. It would do you well to keep those more unsavory thoughts to yourself, Bella," Voldemort replied. She heard the shuffling of papers as Bellatrix attempted to make up for her mistake as she apologized profusely. "Enough. Prepare for your lesson; we have not much time before the opera shall play."

Hermione listened with voyeuristic amusement as Bellatrix again apologized. Then there was a lilting melody that soon gave way to something more comedic and bombastic. Hermione closed her eyes. Curiously she could easily picture a full orchestra playing it—perhaps he was just using a simplified version?

And then Bellatrix began to sing and Hermione was floored. Her voice was _incredible._ Hermione could recognize that much easily enough. She listened as the older woman trilled richly in Italian, her voice and the music interplaying elegantly.

After listening for several moments, her disdain for Bellatrix quite at odds with her admiration for her musical talent, Hermione heard short, fast tapping down the other end of the corridor. She already knew those footsteps to be that of Madame Umbridge. Hermione gathered her skirts and hastened the other way.

She explored the empty manor for a time, feeling like she might drown in the icy beauty of the decor. Still, even Hermione could grow bored of exploration, and after an hour she was rather tired of exploring, especially since now she was beginning to notice the open wounds on her back more acutely. She passed by the front door just as it was swinging open. A flurry of snow was let in and Hermione hugged herself at the rush of frosty air.

Draco had returned from wherever he had gone, apparently, bringing with him two very imposing cloaked figures. They were both nearly twice as broad as Draco, with very small powdered wigs that looked a bit ridiculous sitting atop their squat heads, the white curls over their little piggy black eyes.

"Ah, if it isn't my Mudblood," greeted Draco as one of the two men shut the door behind them. "Crabbe, Goyle—this is it."

Hermione knew it was unwise to react to being referred to as _it_ so she held her tongue, lowering her eyes to the ground docilely.

"A bit peaky, isn't she? But she looks like she'd be good for a few fucks," grunted one of them. Malfoy and the other sniggered at his words. Hermione fisted her hands, attempting to draw in calming breaths. _Do not react. Do not react. You have to get them to believe they've broken you..._

"How is she, Malfoy?" Hermione wondered if Draco would admit that he hadn't made use of her yet, but the man continued. "Can we have a go after you've finished with her?"

She tasted coppery sourness in her mouth; she'd literally bit her tongue to keep from speaking. She saw a shadow move out of the corner of her eye as she kept her gaze resolutely towards the ground, and then a large, rough hand closed around her arm. "What do you say, Mudblood? Bet you like getting fucked by Purebloods, 'cause you know it's the closest you've ever be to having pure blood inside you!"

They were laughing hysterically as though his joke at been funny. _Keep your temper in check_, she warned herself desperately.

But when the man reached out and grasped at her neckline, tearing her dress, something odd occurred. There was a strange surge of something through her; she assumed at the time that it was her blood rushing to her face in her anger.

"Yargh!" he cried out, drawing back abruptly as though shocked. "Malfoy, why'd you give the Mudblood a wand?"

Hermione forgot her resolve to look down as she studied the man who had gripped her; meanwhile she attempted to hold the ripped fabric to her body. He was clutching the hand that had touched her, moaning in pain, his ugly, brutish face contorted into an expression of agony. "It's like she burned me," he whined.

"I didn't give her a wand," said Malfoy coldly. She met his eyes; it was a mistake to do so, because his lip curled. "Come with me, Mudblood," he ordered flatly. She noticed he did not move to touch her.

"I don't have a wand," she protested tersely, but she followed him anyway.

They went into an unused chamber. Without candelight, and with the drapes mostly shielding the windows, it was rather dark and shadowy. "I don't have a wand," she said again plainly.

"Take off your clothes. Where are you hiding it?" he demanded. Hermione seethed with irritation.

"Honestly, don't you think if I had a wand, I would've used it to help me escape last night?" she demanded. Draco seemed a bit soothed by this point, because his courage was newly bolstered. He stepped forward and pushed her against the wall, his hands moving along her body and through her skirts as he searched. It was humiliating and degrading, especially since the front of her gown was still torn and he would not allow her to hold it in place.

Finally satisfied that she did not possess a wand, he shot her a glare.

"I'll be asking my father about this," he warned. "In the meantime, you may sit in here and contemplate what you've done."

Hermione rolled her eyes at his retreating back. When she heard the lock click in place, she sighed. Honestly, did he_ really_ think that being locked in a room was such a horrific punishment? Compared to the punishments she'd gotten before, this was practically a treat.

Hermione looked about the room, intrigued when she found a few sets of books. Long ago she had taught herself to read. Her master at the time had found out and simply sold her, because obviously no one could take away her ability to read. Since then she had kept it a secret, and it was the secret part of herself that delighted her most. She didn't often get access to books, and she sniggered at the thought of how Draco had inadvertently given her a great present by shutting her in here.

She wasn't quite ready to think of what had just occurred, as her heart was still pounding in rage at being handled like she was a toy. Thus instead she decided to content herself with reading—a rare joy for her indeed.

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><p>"Voldemort," said Draco imperiously, throwing open the door to the young composer's chambers. He had seen his aunt Bella leave recently, so he knew the man was alone now. Indeed he found Voldemort seated at his piano, as he usually was, working on a composition.<p>

"Good evening, young master Draco," said Voldemort, not looking up at his entrance. Draco inwardly fumed. He always got the sense that Voldemort was laughing privately to himself at his expense. It was sort of the feeling of at the end of the day realizing you have had something stuck in your teeth and no one has told you, and you spend the night wondering who saw you look so ridiculous.

"The Mudblood used magic on my friend Crabbe," he said, deciding to not beat around the bush. Any time he spent in the composer's presence longer than necessary was time poorly spent. "She sort of ...shocked him, or something."

This seemed to finally grasp Voldemort's attention, and he set his quill down to look at Draco with faint intrigue.

"You do realize that she does not possess a wand," he finally said rather condescendingly. A rare flush went to Draco's cheeks as he sputtered indignantly.

"Yes, but then how did she shock him? We all saw her do it."

"Can you prove that she did it? Besides the word of your friend," countered Voldemort, arching his brows. Draco faltered.

"She didn't deny that she had done it," he said sourly. Maddeningly, Voldemort laughed.

"I suppose you haven't noticed, Draco, but it seems your newest toy enjoys getting a rise out of you," he observed. Then, quite suddenly, his expression hardened. "Now leave—I am in the middle of something. Please do not trouble me with your absurd and trivial little dilemmas."

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><p>By the time Draco returned to let her out of the room, it had grown too dark to continue reading. Hermione had been amusing herself with poking around the room for the last hour—she had even checked to see if they locked these windows. They did not, so she filed this room away in her memory as a possible route for her eventual escape. She had also been pondering what had happened, but she could only deduce that it had been wish magic, as the result of a very powerful dislike for those three men.<p>

But most wish magic didn't happen after the onset of adulthood, so what was going on? Hermione longed for someone to ask, but deemed it unsafe to ask anyone. Still... it was intriguing. She wondered if she could reproduce the effect a second time...

Then the door clicked open.

"It's time for your dinner, Mudblood," Draco said acidly. "Since we cannot prove you shocked Crabbe, you will not be punished for it. But I suggest you be more careful in the future. Come."

Hermione dubiously followed Draco back to her own quarters, still lost in thought about how to perform that wandless magic again. She didn't know any spells, but perhaps she could steal a spellbook from Draco? She decided she would simply have to search this manor for its library. Perhaps at night, when everyone was asleep...

Her dinner was waiting on a tray in her room. Hermione was a bit concerned at the fact that Draco was apparently eating with her. She didn't miss the fact that his tray was overflowing with fancy and rare delicacies and was using quite fine china. Her meal consisted of a slab of stale bread and some sort of grey liquid that had unidentifiable objects floating about in it.

"You're eating with me?" she queried as they sat at the little table underneath the window, the candlelight flickering around them.

"It's time I made use of you, Mudblood. Eat—you'll need your strength," he said with a sneer. Hermione lost her appetite at his words but knew from experience that turning away food was just plain _stupid_. Her stomach writhing uncomfortably, she forced herself to eat the disgusting food. It was a difficult task.

After a House Elf had popped in to take their empty dishes, they were alone again. Ominously Draco locked the door and turned to her. He had extinguished all but one candle.

"Undress," he ordered. Hermione grimaced as she removed her clothing, trying to keep the right pace. Too slow and this became a striptease. Too fast and she might seem eager. _Rather like keeping tempo in a song,_ Hermione thought, recalling something Voldemort had said earlier that morning. Much too soon the frigid air was stinging the wounds on her back and she was shivering before him. "Lie on the bed," he commanded in a much softer voice.

_Just do as you're told. This is part of your plan_, she urged herself. Feeling self-conscious, she awkwardly clambered up onto the bed, trying to keep her privates from being on display. Draco was a shadow in the night as he approached her, an ominous silhouette.

He stood over the bed, looking down at her. She heard more than saw him undress and she scrunched her eyes shut as she felt the bed dip slightly with the new weight on it. Her stomach was churning as she instinctively clamped her thighs shut. His fingers, soft and uncalloused, prised her legs apart.

"Let's see if you were telling the truth about being a virgin, Mudblood," he taunted, his breath a warm, damp rush against her thighs. She held her breath. She thought of how it had felt to have that despicable man Crabbe attempt to violate her. She heard his ragged breathing as he touched her and she squirmed away. "_Incarcerous,_" Malfoy said irritably; she realized he must have taken his wand from the bedside table.

Something snaked around her wrists, forcing her in place. _Don't think about what is happening_, she told herself, trying instead to commit the spell to memory for later practice. Her eyes shot open in shock and pain. "So you weren't lying after all," he concluded. "You'll be so ti—"

There was a blessed knock at the door.

"Busy," said Draco tersely, glowering at the door. "Go away."

"I'm afraid I cannot. Your father requires your presence, master Draco," said Voldemort from the other side of the doorway. Glowering, Draco pulled away.

"I'll be back, Mudblood," he warned darkly as he dressed again, leaving Hermione lying on the bed, bound and nude. The door slammed shut and humiliatingly she glimpsed Voldemort's face. He had seen her.

The humiliation of being a slave was always so much worse than any beating that could be administered. Even with no eyes on her now, she felt thoroughly degraded. She still felt sick from having been touched that way.

But all of that melted away when she realized something—in his irritation at being interrupted and his haste to dress, Draco had left his wand on the bedside table.

...If only she could get at it.

_Well, I suppose now is as good a time as ever to try at the magic again,_ she pondered. She let out a sigh, relaxing as she tried to harness the horror at being poked and prodded so crudely by a man she did not know. She remembered Crabbe's disgusting jeers. Soon her blood was boiling with hatred...

...and the ropes had fallen off of her.

A sort of exhilaration that she hadn't felt in years surged through Hermione as she sat up, staring at the thin ropes that had fallen away. After a moment, they disappeared, which she supposed happened whenever the magical ropes were broken. With a last furtive glance at the doorway, Hermione snatched the wand off the bedside table.

"_Incarcerous_," she whispered, pointing at herself again. Nothing happened. Hermione frowned, dredging up the feeling as well of seeing Ron and his new wife. "_Incarcerous_," she said through clenched teeth.

Suddenly she was bound again. In spite of the embarrassment, she was feeling too pleased with herself. She inched across the bed covers and moved his wand slightly, hoping he wouldn't notice that it had been moved.

_Now just hold onto that happiness when he comes back_, she told herself, bracing herself for the inevitable. And soon Draco did return, looking deeply hassled, and swiftly undressed. His skin and hair were impossibly pale in the moonlight. He didn't notice that the wand had moved a bit, luckily, and after nearly tearing off his clothing, climbed onto the bed with haste.

"I'll not be gentle, tonight, Mudblood, as you have been a great deal of trouble to me," he said through clenched teeth, as he prepared himself. _Think about the wand. Think about how you held a wand for the first time. Think about how you're so much closer to being truly _**_free_**, she urged herself, whimpering in pain.

Her pride disallowed her from crying. Hermione went limp under him and turned her head to gaze out the window, watching crows line up on the rooftop of the opposite house in the darkness, their silhouettes sharp against the covering of snow lit up by the moon.

Soon she would be free.

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><p>Tom had been returning to his chambers when he passed by the room that Draco had given to Hermione. He was walking by, recalling the glimpse he had seen of her lying on the bed, bound and naked, when voices drew his attention and he walked a bit slower.<p>

There was a bumping noise—the indecent sound of headboard hitting the wall behind it—and garbled insults in Draco's familiar sneering voice. After an initial whimper of pain he heard no noise from Hermione, and soon all that was audible was the sound of the headboard mixing with Draco's grunts.

Tom continued walking along the corridor, away from the bedchambers of the concubine. He reflected, as he retired to his own chamber, on his perverse pride that she had not cried.


	4. Act Four: Fortissimo

Lacrimosa

Author's Note: Thanks for all your really great reviews :) I'm estimating 3 chapters left of this story...doubt I can get it done in 2. We shall see.

**Note: The smut found in this chapter has been moved to my blog. **

Disclaimer: the HP universe does not belong to me; I am just borrowing.

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><p><strong>Act Four: Fortissimo<strong>

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><p>After waiting for Draco to finally roll off of her and leave, Hermione washed herself and pulled on her cotton nightdress in a daze. Everything felt different and yet she knew that <em>really<em> nothing had changed. She stared out the window, thinking of Ron. Would it have been like that with him?

Now she was glad she had not shared such a thing with him.

She tried to sleep, for she was exhausted, but sleep would not come. Every now and then the notes of a soft melody reached her ears. Distantly she registered that Voldemort was in the midst of a composition. Feeling as though she had nothing to lose, Hermione rose from her bed. She wrapped the blanket around her shoulders and left her room, padding on bare feet down the icy corridor.

Voldemort's door was locked, though strangely when she reached for the handle the lock clicked out of place. She opened the door to find him at his piano, playing in the dark.

He said nothing when she entered but she knew there was no need to announce herself—he had probably already known before she had even reached for the doorknob. She stood there for a moment, watching and listening to him play. The slats of moonlight fell on the piano and silhouetted his lovely features. The melody was a strange, lilting, melancholy affair.

Hermione sat in a nearby brocade chair, wrapped in the blanket, late into the night. They never spoke and he never acknowledged her presence. The humiliation, the pain, the abuse—it all melted away. To know that she was not alone in this world; to know that if a person could compose a melody so full of pain, then they _must_have experienced it, was comforting in a surprising manner.

And watching him, with his back straight and his elegant hands dancing across the keys so effortlessly as he was so lost in his own thoughts and composition was also comforting. There was still beauty in this world; not all had ended.

Life would go on; she would survive.

Hermione did not know how long she stayed, but when she began to feel the gentle fingers of sleep tugging at her, she swept up her blankets and left silently.

The door clicked shut behind her and Tom stopped playing, staring at the door where she had left shrouded in her blanket like a faint lovely ghost.

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><p>The next morning when Hermione had awoken, the pain between her legs and on her back had worsened. When she dressed she took extra care to not jar her wounds, but it was difficult. Still the pain was masked by her excitement at the music lesson.<p>

"Enter," came his voice after she had knocked. She noted with an odd flutter that it was slightly raspy; he must have just awoken.

His chambers seemed a sort of sanctuary compared to the darkness of Malfoy Manor. It was devoid of furnishings or drapes, save for his bed, the wardrobe, and the blessed piano. The windows faced out over the impressive gardens of the manor, letting in sunshine. Voldemort was seated at the piano as usual.

Neither spoke of the night before.

"So," she began with forced cheer, "What am I learning today?"

"One of the simplest lines of the aria that Bellatrix will sing in this newest opera," he replied, rifling through parchment. "Sit."

"Yes, master," teased Hermione with a roll of her eyes as she took her place next to him on the bench, wincing as the movement provoked some pain from her various wounds. Quickly smoothing her face free of contortion from the pain, she let him guide her hands onto the keys. "What is the opera about, anyway?"

"It is a comic opera about a woman who will do anything to gain entry to the royal court. Bellatrix plays the woman," he said simply. "Now, look at these notes. See how this is a very simplistic progression?" He gestured to the sheet music; somehow the notes on the page looked _clumsy. _Considering his obvious talent, she assumed this must have been done on purpose.

"Yes... Does Bellatrix know her part in the opera?" Hermione was still curious about the smirk she had caught on his face a few days ago at the gardens.

"Bella doesn't speak Italian," he said plainly, though she could see that hint of a smirk beginning to curve his lips.

"So how do you direct her to act?" Hermione prodded as he began moving her hands along the keys. Now he was grinning and for a moment he paused, their eyes meeting. They seemed very close together at this time; their faces were mere inches apart. She could breathe in the musky scent of his skin.

"I tell her to be herself," he said innocently. "Enough questions. Think about the music."

For a moment, he guided her hands along the keys. Indeed it was an extremely simplistic (and somewhat childish) tune.

"This is a part in the opera where she is embarrassing herself and is unaware of it?" she guessed wryly. He took his hands away, and it was a simple enough tune that Hermione could keep playing without too much difficulty. There was a part of her — which she was quite embarrassed by — that was disappointed when the contact ended.

"In this part, she's flirting with a man she believes is the king, but is actually the queen's not-so-secret lover," he said with a smirk. "It is an enormous faux-pas and she has no idea."

Hermione found herself laughing a lot that morning as they played. After the sun was approaching its highest point, the lesson had to end, and she was sorry that it must. The time had flown by and she was even beginning to become quite comfortable playing some of the simplistic tunes on her own. At one point she got a tantalizing glimpse into Voldemort's deeper nature when he taught her to play a sweet little melody that he had composed as a child.

"Today we will be having a dress rehearsal at the opera house," said Voldemort as they cleared away the sheets of music. She hung around in his chambers, watching him select another plain, dark waistcoat from the wardrobe and shrug into it. "Lucius wishes for Draco to become more cultured, so I assume you both will be attending. Wash up and be ready," he dismissed, nodding in the direction of her chambers.

Just as they were parting, Draco was alighting the top of the stairs to find them.

"Mudblood, we're going out today," he barked. Hermione stiffened at the sight of him.

"I just informed her, Draco. She'll be ready in moments," said Voldemort as he brushed past Draco to descend the staircase. Hermione hurried along the corridor, away from the two men, eager to be out of Draco's presence. Memories of how he had violated her rushed back and she pushed them down— stifled them— by trying to commit the tune Voldemort had shown her from his childhood to her memory.

As she dressed, she found herself humming it, attempting to picture him as a little boy, working as a slave and composing music in his head. With his fine, masculine features it was difficult to picture him as anything other than a grown man. It was also rather difficult to picture him obeying any orders. She stopped humming abruptly as she tried to imagine how he might have escaped enslavement.

By the time she was ready, Draco was waiting impatiently outside of her chambers, scowling sulkily.

"Hmph," he grunted at the sight of her. "I knew you would look more regal in emerald," he said simply. Hermione arched her brows at him as they began walking towards the front door.

"You picked out my clothes?" she asked curiously. Draco snorted.

"Of course I did. My concubine will not wear just _anything,_" he sneered. Hermione frowned at him in suspicion. Draco was beyond odd in her mind. What did he care what his toy wore as long as she had a working female body?

Lucius and Narcissa had gone to socialize with other Purebloods, and as the opera house was only a short walk away, they hit the street on foot. Voldemort had gone ahead of them. It was very strange indeed to be walking arm-in-arm with Draco, especially after the previous night. The Malfoys were one of the most prominent families in Hogsmeade, so it seemed that everywhere they walked, people were bowing, curtsying, removing their caps, or offering them something like food or drink. Draco snootily declined all offers. He also made no conversation, but he certainly kept a tight hold on her arm.

Her mind wandered to the night before, wherein she had held a wand for the first time. Hermione pondered her wandless magic. Could she have some more control over it?

_It seems like it only works when I am feeling very emotional_, she thought to herself as they reached the Opera house. _But harnessing my emotions is so counterproductive to my mission to forget the bad things that have happened..._

Well, if she planned on forgetting every bad thing that happened to her, she mused as they took their seats, then she would have a _very_ select few memories of her life left indeed.

She had done quite a bit of wish or accidental magic in her time. It had even resulted in her getting sold to the Parkinsons, because a slave that could not be controlled appropriately was a worthless one. It had always been in times of deep trauma, and while she had always _tried_ to gain some semblance of control over it, it had never worked out. This was mostly because the moments in which her magic came to her were the moments in which she was the least _herself_. In times of great danger, she lost the analytical and logical nature which she prided herself on, and instead was left in a wild, animalistic cornered state.

But how to harness her powers without compromising her own sanity?

Coming back from her musings, she noted that Draco was boredly picking at his nails and not paying the slightest bit of attention to the proceedings on stage—not that much yet was happening; the musicians were setting up their instruments and theaterhands were setting up a rough, jumbled version of the set on stage.

Bellatrix arrived in an enormous emerald dress glittering with jewels, an opal necklace resting at her breast and disappearing in her ample cleavage. She was much too overdressed for a mere dress rehearsal. It was amusing to watch her swoon in Voldemort's presence. Meanwhile, Voldemort could not have possibly been less receptive to her advances, and every flirt, every air-kiss, every wink was met with supreme indifference.

"Get upon the stage, Lady Lestrange," he ordered a bit crossly as he adjusted sheet music on a stand before him. "We're starting from the first Aria today, as you have yet to master it, in spite of how insultingly simple it ought to be."

Huffily Bellatrix alighted the stage, snapping at stagehands that mistakenly crossed her path. For quite a long time, adjustments were made. The musicians weren't playing exactly to Voldemort's wishes and were generally snapped at so viciously that after moments most of them were quite cowed by Voldemort's behavior.

With so little going on with the set, Hermione found that the strained silence between her and Draco was painfully notable. Draco was now glowering in the direction of Voldemort and she was reminded of something that had been bothering her: the very odd dynamic between Voldemort and Draco.

"Why must you follow Voldemort around like this?" Draco had slumped in his seat, his gleaming buckled shoes resting on the railing of the balcony.

"Because Father thinks that it will win me favor with Grindelwald so I might make something of myself," he said rather snarkily. Hermione did not miss the repugnant glare he shot at Voldemort's svelte back. "Part of how he is paying for his lodgings in our manor is to be an advisor of sorts to me." He glanced at Hermione suspiciously. "What's it to you?"

"Excuse me for wanting to find out something about the man who so mysteriously purchased me without preamble," she said acidly at him. Draco rolled his eyes and returned to shooting caustic looks at Voldemort. "Why did you buy me, anyway? Weren't you supposed to marry Pans—Lady Parkinson?" Hermione caught herself and corrected her words swiftly; she was already being insolent by asking so many questions. No need to further anger her captor by implying a lack of respect for her former owner. Draco snorted.

"Only Iris and Pansy were under that impression," he said sourly. "I had no intention of marrying Pansy. She was certainly good for a night in bed or two, but the problem with women is that they automatically assume that coitus means a betrothal." He paused to look meaningfully at her. "Just so you are aware, Mudblood, it_doesn't_."

"_That's_ why you bought me? To avoid marrying Pansy?" she asked in disgust. Draco scowled at her again but looked away a bit hastily, piquing Hermione's further curiosity.

"You ask too many questions, Mudblood. Speak again during this ordeal and I shall beat you within an inch of your life."

Privately Hermione doubted Draco had it in him to dole out such a serious beating, but there was no reason to voice such an opinion. She sighed and relaxed back against her brocade seat, observing the spectacle. Soon the Opera House was filled with Bellatrix's rich, undulating singing. She walked about the stage, glowing with the pleasure of knowing all eyes were on her, dipping low quite often to put her cleavage even more on display. As usual, Voldemort was paying no attention. At the moment, he was scowling at some of the flutists who were apparently not performing according to his expectations, whilst he was conducting rather absently.

Without the ability to bother Draco with questions, and with the rehearsal often halting so Voldemort could reprimand the musicians or Bellatrix for something, Hermione soon grew bored. Her keen mind returned again to the question of how to harness her own wandless magic.

_A few experiments couldn't hurt..._ she mused, smirking as Bellatrix spun on the spot dramatically and nearly disemboweled a stagehand with a scepter she was carrying as part of her costume. Behind Bellatrix, other stagehands were setting up something made out of thin slabs of wood, the men hanging from suspension pulleys and balancing on rickety-looking ladders. Atop the structure was a loose bit of wood balancing precariously on the edge. _Wouldn't it be funny if it fell?_ Bellatrix was quite near its path of trajectory...

Closing her eyes, Hermione pulled out the images in her mind's eye that she had been spending the entire morning ignoring. _Move the plank. Move the plank, _she willed herself silently. She opened her eyes again, focusing on the bit of wood. _What was that spell again? ...__Locomotor? **Locomotor**_** wood...?**

Bellatrix let out a shrill shriek as a piece of wood fell from the top of the imitation castle and landed with a loud _clunk_ directly next to her feet.

Hermione hid her triumphant smirk by suddenly bursting into a coughing fit. And she did her best impression of innocence when, somehow, two sets of eyes — one of pale, icy grey; the other of deepest shadow — turned to look directly at her.

* * *

><p>"You made that piece of wood fall, Mudblood," hissed Draco as they returned along the darkening streets to Malfoy Manor. Hermione simply arched her brows at him.<p>

"Did I? News to me," she said coolly, making a show of examining her paper folding fan. She heard Draco snort in pure disgust.

"Tonight I shall come for you again. This time you'd better not fight me," he finally said in a low voice as they neared the front doors. Something in Hermione's belly squirmed with distaste, but fortunately she was pulled from her own dark thoughts by the fact that Voldemort and Bellatrix had arrived already in their carriage.

There was to be a dinner; Hermione was gratefully sent to her room. Instead of focusing on the unpleasantness of what awaited her this evening, she decided to carry out more 'experiments.' She sat on the bed, listening as Madame Umbridge locked the door from the outside. She smirked. Even before she had gained control of her magic, a little lock had hardly ever kept her from going where she wished. She waited for the short, heavy paces to round the corner and descend the stairs. Dimly were the sounds of the dinner party downstairs; Bellatrix's laughter was loud and sensuous.

The purpose of this experiment was to determine whether she could unlock the door _without_ drawing on her emotions, but sadly, after an hour, the lock still had not budged. _Probably am uttering the spell wrong,_ she thought irritably. She amused herself for the rest of the evening by making small objects move about the room, though unfortunately she still could not ellicit her own magic without an emotional stimulus.

The lock jiggled a bit before midnight. By this time Hermione had moved the wardrobe a few inches across the floor and was working on lifting it up. When Draco entered, his normally quite pale face was flushed.

"You're drunk," she observed, unable to mask her disdain. His fluffy powdered wig that he had put on for the dinner was askew as well; he looked ridiculous. Draco scoffed.

"I'm not drunk, Mudblood. Purebloods do not get drunk," he slurred. Hermione rolled her eyes, watching as he stumbled towards her. He removed his wig and tossed it aside, meanwhile shrugging out of his silvery waistcoat and tossing it to the floor. He toppled over onto Hermione, pinning her to the mattress. "Hmph. Voldemort thinks he can just charm his way into my family. Stupid prat," he mumbled, apparently to himself. Hermione relaxed slightly. She had heard plenty of rumors of what wine did to the act of bedding; there was a point where certain things stopped working and she could guess that Draco had reached that point...Hopefully, at least.

She looked shrewdly up at him as he fumbled with his britches clumsily. _If he's this drunk...perhaps he'd be more open to questions...?_ It was worth a try. Draco made several attempts to undress her and finally gave up, ordering her to simply undress herself. Hermione complied, knowing it'd make him more likely to let down his guard.

"Draco...where is the library?" she asked innocently as she let her dress fall in a rush of raw silk and lace to the ground. Draco swayed on his feet. On his face was the rather amusingly thoughtful expression of someone who is quite drunk.

"By the kitchens," he said before stopping suddenly. "What's it to you?"

"Shouldn't your concubine be well-acquainted with Malfoy Manor?"

"No. You should be acquainted with nothing more than how to please me," he growled before pushing her back down onto the bed after she had unlaced her corset. His hands were clammy as he pawed at her; revulsion coursed through her and it was a great effort to school her features and master herself before him.

"...Why did you buy me? Was it really to avoid marrying Pansy?" Draco was busying himself, apparently quite uninterested in what she had to say.

"Stop talking, Mudblood, or I'll give your mouth something else to do," he grumbled. Hermione shut her eyes in pain. She had been banking on Draco being too drunk to perform, but apparently _those_ items worked just fine with a little inebriation. He was moving and grunting and Hermione looked to the door, staring at the lock. She wanted very much to learn that unlocking spell...perhaps she could sneak to the library tonight?

There did seem to be a side-effect to alcohol after all: Draco lasted much longer. It felt like hours that he was moving in and out of her, sweating and gripping her hips. Hermione stared at the door, trying to ignore the sharp burning of pain that was building between her legs.

In the crack between the bottom of the door and the floor, there was a chink of the soft glow of wandlight and then footsteps. They were slow, languorous, and stopped near the door for a moment before continuing on. Hermione's stomach clenched. Had Voldemort been listening in?

Finally Draco had finished, and after lying on top of her for moments, panting and sweating, he clambered off of her and left the room without another word—though he had apparently gleaned something from their conversation, because she didn't miss how he carefully locked the door.

With the humiliation of knowing Voldemort had overhead her, she found herself forgoing on attempting to unlock the door magically. She _needed_ to _do_ something. Hermione withdrew a pin from her tresses and, after cleaning herself and dressing in her nightgown, picked the lock on the door.

Soon she had made it to the library and was surrounded by books. She didn't have enough time to read the books in the library, so she simply hid a few slim spellbooks in her nightdress, her hands quivering with the fear of being caught. When she turned around to leave, she nearly let out a scream but stopped herself at the last moment.

Voldemort was standing in the doorway, smirking at her.

"T-tell anyone and I'll—" she began, trying to hold one of the books threateningly. Voldemort pushed away from the doorway and shut the door quietly behind him.

"Trying to find other ways to terrorize my biggest star?" he asked in a dangerously soft voice. Hermione's cheeks flushed.

"I did nothing," she said shrilly. Voldemort simply scoffed.

"Nothing? You wandlessly and, as far as I know, nonverbally moved a block of wood and nearly gave Bellatrix a concussion. Last time I checked, that was not exactly_nothing_," he replied scathingly, advancing on her. Though he was still several feet away, she already keenly sensed her personal space being invaded. She clutched the books to her chest defensively but did not step back.

When they were mere inches apart he stopped, looking down his straight nose at her with amusement glimmering tantalizingly in his dark eyes. "I've only ever seen or heard of one other person having such control over their own magic," he murmured, watching her carefully. Hermione licked her lips; her mouth had gone quite dry and her heart was pulsing in her throat.

"W-who?"

Instead of answering, Voldemort turned away for a moment. Hermione held her breath, watching him and waiting for his next move. Quite suddenly, he rounded on her, suddenly clutching a yew wand.

"_Petrificus Totalus,_" he said in a cold, flat voice. Hermione drew in a sharp breath and instinctively, somehow, she was protected from the Hex. She stared in shock at Voldemort for a split second. Instead of looking frustrated that she had blocked his Hex, he looked supremely pleased. Brandishing his wand thoughtfully, he took another step towards Hermione.

"What—" she began but was cut off when another Hex flew her way. She dodged it barely, but when it nearly grazed her ear, she was magically shielded again. "Stop that this instant—" Hermione demanded just as she dodged another hex.

Finally, Voldemort relented.

"Your magic is incredible," he said softly, though there was a manic gleam in his eyes that frightened her. "I knew it. I knew from the moment you fell in front of my carriage," he continued, advancing again on her.

"Will you help me then?" she asked a bit breathlessly; she was still trembling from the effort of blocking a few very powerful spells.

"Yes—but only if you swear to do exactly as I say. This can benefit both of us. Only if..." he paused, she supposed for effect, "...you make the Unbreakable Vow."

"...What would I have to do?" she asked warily. Voldemort scoffed.

"I will tell you when I see fit."

Hermione stared witheringly at him.

"Why, in the name of Merlin, would I agree to something like that? What do you take me for—a complete prat?"

Voldemort's lips twitched and she shot him a caustic look to silence him. She sighed, turning away. The prospect of his help was beyond tantalizing—he was willing to give her a wand! —but then...making an Unbreakable Vow without knowing ahead of time her own part was simply stupid.

"...I need time to think on it," she said finally. Voldemort nodded.

"Of course. I understand you're a timid type." He turned to go as Hermione fumed.

"Timid? I am **_not_** timid," she seethed at him. Voldemort paused in the doorway.

"No, but you're certainly the most amusing witch to tease," he replied smugly. Hermione wished to kick him. He looked thoughtful for a moment before adding, "and it's _alohomora._"

She blinked at him in surprise.

"_Alohomora?_ What?"

He simply tapped the lock on the library door, winked at her, and then left her standing in the silence.

* * *

><p>Hermione tossed and turned all night on the offer, trying to come to a decision. Her nightmares were horrific and as a consequence she rose the next morning quite exhausted. She did not have a music lesson today, for today was the ball, which was to be held at the palace. Hermione was sitting in her room, waiting for a chance to practice the new spell, when she heard voices. Angry voices.<p>

"_I'm_ **not** _taking her!_" Draco was snarling.

"You will do as you are told, Draco," sneered Lucius. Hermione chuckled to herself. If Draco didn't wish to take her to waht she assumed was Grindelwald's ball, she was completely accepting of that fact.

"I'll take my Mudblood before I take _her_," said Draco. She heard Lucius sigh.

"Do what you wish, Draco," he said resignedly. Hermione grimaced. It seemed Draco had been referring to Pansy earlier and _not_ to her, sadly. The door opened.

"You're going to the ball tonight. Umbridge will come with a few other maids to help you prepare shortly," Draco said flatly before slamming the door shut again.

By the end of the day, Hermione was rather reproachful of everyone. Madame Umbridge and her cronies had spent the entire day tugging and pulling and poking and prodding, and by the time Hermione was set to leave with Draco, all she wanted to do was sleep. The corset was the tightest one yet and dug sharply into her wounds, and the powdered wig felt hot and itchy on her head.

The Malfoys were using their finest carriage, drawn by pure white horses. Bellatrix and Voldemort were already waiting, and Hermione rather rudely wondered if Bellatrix's dress and hair alone would fit into the carriage. When her eyes met Voldemort's, they each seemed to recall his offer from the night before, though neither acknowledged the other. They piled into the carriage in the snowy night, crows scattering as the carriage bumped along. Draco was as sullen as Hermione, Bellatrix was talking enough for everyone, and Lucius was continually sending both Voldemort and Draco disapproving glowers. Hermione attributed it to the fact that he probably thought Voldemort ought to have advised Draco to take Pansy to the ball.

The palace was so overly decorated, as was the style, that Hermione immediately acquired a headache. Still, it was rather impressive—did they really insist on gilding_every_thing? The ballroom in the palace was filled with Purebloods bedecked in their frilliest waistcoats and dresses, the powdered wigs a cloud of white. Hermione was prepared to settle in for an evening of being bored when she saw something that made her blood turn to ice.

In the center of the ballroom, dancing with his brothers and their wives, was Ron with Lavender.

"What are you staring at, Mudblood? Move along," snapped Draco irritably, giving Hermione's arm a sharp tug. Had she been paying attention, she would have seen the hate-filled look she received from Pansy and Iris, but Hermione had been hit too suddenly by a wave of grief. Ron spotted her, and for a magnetic moment, everything else faded.

She had to dance with Draco, and she and Ron made eye contact repeatedly throughout the night. Hermione was grateful that she never seemed to end up too near him to be forced to speak...but soon realized she had spoken too soon: during one dance, they ended up face-to-face, and wordlessly Ron grasped her arm, leading her to a corridor just off the ballroom.

"What are you doing here?" he hissed. "You're dressed like a— like a _pureblood_," he said in shock. Hermione had forgotten just how blue his eyes were; she glared at him.

"I am Malfoy's concubine, if you must know," she said with as much dignity as she could possibly muster. Ron balked.

"His _concubine!_ Hermione, how could you go and allow yourself to be a concubine for _Malfoy_!"

Something in Hermione snapped.

"Oh, perhaps because, as I am a Mudblood, I do not have the wonderful thing that you have: choice?" she said in a rather high voice. Ron was looking rather dark.

"You could have run away—"

"Be quiet. You were supposed to—" she halted, unable to say it for a moment, until she had gathered her courage, "—we were in _love, _Ron," she finished weakly. Ron looked uncomfortable.

"You can't expect me to marry a Mudblood," he reasoned awkwardly. "I _had_ to marry Lavender." Fury was welling up within Hermione; she would never forget that night, trapped between the image of Ron with Lavender and Voldemort, a dark shadow on a dark horse, with Malfoy approaching. It had been one of the lowest points of her life.

"Unlike me, you had a choice—and you chose the easy thing instead of the right thing, Ron," she replied, her fists shaking with anger. She had once shared so much with the young man standing before her, but now it felt like a lie. She had spent so many nights aching for him, spent so much time imagining how she might run to what she had thought would be his open arms. And now...he had the _nerve_ to criticise her for something over which she had had no control.

The silence was searing, painful. They stared at each other as though seeing each other for the first time. In a way, they truly were.

"You disgust me," said Ron finally. "I thought you were better than Malfoy."

He turned to go and suddenly Hermione was aware of how little they were actually hidden. People were beginning to stare. She turned to look at the wall to hide her tears, but couldn't resist doing something. She smirked with satisfaction when she heard him trip.

She went out back to the crowds and felt her satisfaction plummet to unease when she realized Draco was approaching her, looking furious.

"Talking to Weasley? Probably letting him fuck you; you Mudbloods are whorish, after all," he snarled. And without warning, he hit her across the face. The people around them were not dancing and many gasped at the sound of the slap.

The sting of the slap was nothing compared to the humiliation. Hermione kept her eyes averted. Retaliating now would be foolish.

"I'm sorry," she said with forced calm. Draco stormed away. The gazes of the people around her were scorching. When her legs resumed their ability to work again, she found herself striding to Voldemort. There was an odd expression on his face, and as though he knew exactly her intentions, he swiftly pulled her to a nearby balcony just as she reached him.

It was freezing outside but Hermione was grateful for the cold rush of air. The balcony overlooked the impressive gardens; the snow was falling on the tulips.

"Whatever it is that you want me to do, I'll do it," said Hermione, turning to face Voldemort. He did not seem surprised at all by what ought to have been a complete non sequitur.

"Will you make the Unbreakable Vow?" he asked quietly. His eyes looked like the midnight sky. There was a moment's hesitation until the wind picked up, stinging her cheek where Malfoy had slapped her.

"Yes," she replied. Voldemort continued to stare at her for a few breathless moments.

"We will do it tonight, in my chambers. After Draco is..._finished_... come to my room," he told her. He turned to return to the ball, but Hermione stopped him.

"I have some stipulations first," she informed him shakily as she clutched the sleeve of his waistcoat, holding him in place. Voldemort arched an elegant brow at her.

"I hate to be the one to tell you, Hermione, but you are not exactly in the position to be making demands," he said coolly. Hermione schooled her expression to one of indifference.

"You will first tell me how I will be helping you—"

"No. Try again," he said automatically. She sighed; she had been expecting that.

"Fine. Then you will tell me _exactly_ how you escaped your own enslavement, from start to finish, no holds barred," she said.

His eyes roved over her thoughtfully; she was aware of how they seemed to linger at her collarbone and lips. She felt vulnerable and exposed.

"...I can do that," he murmured finally. "The question is, do you really wish to hear it?"

"Yes. I do."

The wind howled around them, nearly masking the sounds of the ball. Hermione decided to continue. "You will get me a wand, and you will teach me how to use it, and you will help me to escape."

"Fair enough. But you will have to do exactly as I say, without question. You will follow my orders."

It was an ominous order. Hermione licked her lips. There was no turning back now—she would _never_ be beaten like that ever again as long as she could help it.

"I will see you tonight," she finally whispered, letting go of his arm. Voldemort studied her for a tense moment.

"...I think you look much better in a simple cotton nightgown," he told her. Hermione smiled wryly at him. So he had acknowledged what had happened two nights before...

"You look much better in a plain shirt, playing your piano," she replied with a sardonic grin. He returned it and then left, throwing over his shoulder a reply:

"...See you tonight."


	5. Act Five: Crescendo

Lacrimosa

Author's Note: Yes, I posted this. But then I took it down because I was lying in bed running over all the ways in which the chapter hadn't been written to my expectations. So I deleted it so I could revise it. I still am not pleased with it, but I'm worried if I hold off, it'll just get abandoned. Better to keep moving...

Anyway, thanks for all the lovely reviews!

(And, in the future, information about my fics can be found at both my livejournal and twitter accounts. Links to both are on the profile.)

**Note: the smut from this chapter has been moved to my blog. **

Disclaimer: the HP universe does not belong to me; I am just borrowing.

* * *

><p><strong>Act Five: Crescendo<strong>

* * *

><p>It was a particularly sullen carriageride back to Malfoy Manor. Had Hermione been paying attention, she might've noticed the tension pulled taut as a string, but at the moment she was too busy staring out into the swirling snow.<p>

Tonight, she would be bargaining for her freedom.

Letting Draco violate her seemed a small price to pay, and Hermione mentally prepared herself for the worst—she _had_ embarrassed him, after all. Punishment was to be expected. Yet Draco simply barked at her to go to her rooms and retired to his own chamber without another word. Nonplussed, Hermione did as told. Madame Umbridge stopped by on her rounds, which reminded Hermione that it would seem highly suspicious for her not to be in her nightdress already.

After Voldemort's comments at the ball about how she looked in her nightdress, she was reluctant to wear it. Hermione did not want it to appear to be an attempt to curry further favor from him. But in the end she decided to put on the nightgown, telling herself it was strictly logical. Still, when she passed by her mirror, she noted how the moonlight seemed to filter through the thin fabric, showing off her silhouette.

It was a potent mixture of fear, excitement, and hope that kept Hermione up until well after midnight. She was too excited to even really practise her magic, though she did manage to move a few things around the room. When the clock struck one o'clock in the morning, Hermione sprang from the bed as though wired to do so and launched herself at her door.

"_Alohomora_," she murmured. To her surprise, the lock sprang free and the door creaked open. It was all she could do to master her urge to sprint to Voldemort's chambers. She ended up half-running along the corridor, perhaps not as carefully as she should have.

_This is it. My last chance to back out_, she told herself as she stared at the unassuming door that led to his chambers. A potential happy — but surely dangerous — future lay beyond this door. The question was, did she possess the courage to pursue it?

Hardly a question worth pondering. With no further hesitation, Hermione grasped the doorknob and nearly flung open the door. Voldemort was studying his compositions by candlelight, and as usual was unsurprised by her arrival.

"I'm ready," she announced, standing awkwardly in the middle of the room. When his dark eyes left the parchment to rove over her, she wondered what he might be thinking. Wordlessly he retrieved his wand and casually flicked it. The candle went out, casting the room in shadow, and there was a strange tingling up Hermione's spine that she realized was the pure magic alive in the air around him. His power took her breath away.

"Wards," he explained, rising from the bench and approaching her. "We must not be overheard." He stopped before her, still brandishing his wand. "You are aware of the consequences of breaking the Unbreakable Vow?"

"Yes, of course," said Hermione, wishing she could sound a bit braver. Voldemort studied her for a moment. She was suddenly aware of how thin the cotton of her nightdress was.

"Give me your hand," he said softly. "There is a particular way of performing this without a Bonder, fortunately."

With the moonlight streaming in through the window, his skin looked nearly as pale as the virgin snow outside. Hermione, entranced, raised her hand to clasp Voldemort's. She had the vague notion of pride at how little her hand trembled, but little else made its way into her mind: she supposed she had gone into a state of shock. She was making an Unbreakable Vow without being aware of the _true_ terms of it. She was blindly stepping off a cliff and praying there weren't rocks at the bottom, though deep down she knew that there were never pleasant things awaiting one at the foot of a cliff, rocks or not. Only pain or death or both could possibly await her now.

"Will you vow to follow my orders without question, Hermione?" his voice was less than a whisper. He was staring at her hard. Hermione returned the gaze as the shock melted away. She would willingly jump for her freedom.

"I vow to follow your orders without question," she repeated smoothly, her courage bolstered. "Will you vow to tell me your life story, from start to present, with no details spared? Will you vow to assure that I escape with my life? That I am free to live my life as I choose?"

Voldemort paused for a moment.

"I vow to tell you my life story, no details spared. And I vow to make you a free Mudblood."

The flames curled around their entwined hands, and now Hermione knew there truly was no turning back.

When the flames disappeared, the two Mudbloods regarded each other for a moment in the chilling silence, Voldemort's powerful magic still lingering in the air and raising goosebumps along her skin. Finally they each relented and turned away. Hermione drew in deep, slow breaths. To calm herself or otherwise, she was not sure.

"Life story," Hermione prompted when she had regained her voice. She looked back to Voldemort, who was staring out the window contemplatively. He turned to face her.

"Sit, please," he said, gesturing for her to seat herself in the very chair she had sat in a few nights ago. Hermione did as told, staring up at him, waiting a bit impatiently.

He surprised her by retaking his seat at the piano. He looked back at Hermione thoughtfully as his hands found the keys on their own. She recognized it as part of the symphony that had moved her to tears—the first of his music that she had ever heard. She could remember the tears, remember how she had been perplexed at such an emotional piece coming from a Pureblood. She had sensed the inner complexities in him then—or perhaps she had sensed them the moment they had first met.

There were a few beginning melancholy notes, sparse like the first flakes of a snow falling. Voldemort was still watching her, deep in thought. Hermione wondered if he was appraising her appearance and noting that she had changed into the nightdress and she felt her cheeks aflame with the idea that he might desire her.

His pale fingers moved along the keys. "My mother was the last left of the Gaunt family," he began very softly. The notes formed a rather drab, sullen tune. They effectively chased away whatever silly notions of desire that she had had, instead putting into her mind the image of a barren landscape. "She had the purest and most regal of blood running through her veins—Slytherin's blood— but she lived with her father and brother in squalor. They led piteous, humiliating lives, and fared little better than Mudblood slaves."

The tune was picking up now. "They worked, of course, though my mother was the only one to ever keep a steady job. She kept to herself and never said a word. She had little hope for her future. For the Gaunt family was disreputable—dirt poor; as poor as you, Lady Granger— and she of quite a homely countenance."

Hermione dared not interrupt, though she hardly wished to. She was mesmerised by the tale he was telling. It was a curious feeling, but it was as though his words were spare lines and his melodies the paint filling in the majority of the picture. Now she pictured a dumpy woman hurtling along the barren landscape, perhaps to a well. "She longed to be loved, to experience desire. Yet she was so homely and of such poor prospects that she doubted anyone would ever want her. But one day—aha! She met a Muggle. He was a slave, naturally, but she found him to be beautiful. He was as handsome as she was hideous." His hands were plucking a much sweeter melody now, though every once in a while there was a minor note that lent the song an ominous feel.

"They had you?" confirmed Hermione.

"Had me, yes, in the stable of the very home in which they both served." He was disgusted by his birth, that much she could see on his face. He was pounding on the keys harder now. "My mother died in childbirth, and my father—knowing that once they saw my face, he would be a dead man—ran. But he died anyway soon after. Muggles rarely live long these days. The plague got him, like it got most of the Muggles his age."

There was no longer rhythm or flow to the melody; it was like a storm of sound. Voldemort hammered on the piano, filling the room with the dark and tumultuous noise. "They found me in the stable, laying in my dead mother's arms. Their first clue that something was amiss was how I did not squall like a normal infant."

He quieted the song now, returning to those few sad notes which the song had begun with. "At first, I was born with her status. I had no name and no living family left, so I was to be raised to be a paid servant. But as time wore on, my features became more defined. It became clear exactly who had fathered me—not just a Mudblood, but a Muggle. I had both the purest and yet the foulest blood running through my veins. I was worse that even a Muggle, because I was considered the unnatural product of two different species. They all regarded me the way others might have viewed the offspring of a man and a dog."

Now it was a quick, frantic melody. "I was the spitting image of my father and I disgusted all who laid eyes on me. I had little idea of what I had done so very wrong. By the time I was five, I was branded as a Mudblood. The family who had owned my father and paid my mother couldn't bear the shame, but hoped that others could be tricked into believing me a simple Mudblood. Naturally, I was immediately sold.

"I was a solitary child and disliked being told what to do. My new status as a slave was not one I planned on adjusting to. I had already learned of my wish-magic, and not only that, but was gaining more and more control over it."

In spite of the darkness of the syncopated melody, there was some semblance of triumph peering through the layers. This was quite a complex piece of music—appropriate for the most complex man she had ever met. Hermione was beginning to recall this part of the symphony, and how it had made her eyes burn with unshed tears. At the time of first hearing the symphony, she had been hit with the notion of sameness, and now she understood why.

"You were performing wandless magic?"

"Precisely. At first, I was disobedient and was frequently beaten. It took a few years for me to learn how to charm and manipulate others—perhaps the most useful manifestation of my magic. Perhaps they knew where I had gotten my features, but no human is immune to beauty. After I reached the age of ten, I began to rely on my looks and charm. I learned to hide my magic, to not speak out. I adapted to my situation, and soon began plotting.

"But, as I said, no human is immune to beauty. The advantage that a pretty little boy has over a pretty little girl is that he will never show any physical sign of violation, and therefore his worth cannot be damaged_ that_ way."

Hermione's stomach turned and she clapped her hands over her mouth as she stared at Voldemort. His face was impassive as he played, the notes turning darker and quieter. "Lady Granger," he prompted very softly, his voice melding with the sounds of the piano.

"...Yes?" she whispered, watching in horror as he carressed the keys so softly that the piano was hardly making a sound.

"Do you know about the Unforgivable Curses?" His voice was like silk. She wished to not speak but she knew she must obey him.

"The Imperius Curse, the Cruciatus Curse, and the Killing Curse," Hermione replied, still staring wide-eyed at Voldemort as the fear, shock, and deep disgust set in. She was a smart girl; she knew exactly where this was headed.

"It was so easy," he continued in his soft voice, the melody ominously soft as well. "I used the Imperius Curse on the maid. I was led into their house." The notes were returning to that chaotic, frantic, jumbled mess which masked a melody well. His eyes were wide, his expression manic. "There was nothing more than a flash of green light."

After a final crashing note, the soft, hidden triumph of the melody wore away as Voldemort stopped playing. Now the only sound was a ringing in her ears.

"You killed them for raping you?" she finally said, her mouth having gone quite dry. Voldemort looked out the window.

"I suppose. I don't quite recall what set me off. I was a little boy at the time, you see," he said thoughtfully.

"Y-you could still have been put in Azkaban, or tortured until you begged for death, or—or anything," she stammered. "Didn't you worry about being caught?"

Now Voldemort turned back to her, a slight grin curving his lips.

"That's the trouble with enslavement—the flaw in the logic. When a person realizes they have absolutely nothing left to lose but their own life, the game changes," he said sibilantly, rising from his bench to approach her. "Give a human—any human—enough hatred and anger, and you will find that human abandoning the absurd constructs we call morals. Push any human being enough, and right and wrong become words of a foreign language that they do not wish to speak."

"Murder is still wrong," Hermione countered, blinking rapidly to halt the onset of tears. Voldemort towered over her now.

"There is no right, nor is there wrong. There is only power and those too weak to seek it." His voice was as icy and detached as the snow outside. Hermione was nearly positive her blood had turned to ice, despite knowing it was not physically possible. She stared up at Voldemort, unable to break the eye contact. She was looking into the shadowy eyes of a cold-blooded killer, and the moment she considered her own fear was the moment his very words echoed in her mind. _**When a person realizes they have absolutely nothing left to lose but their own life, the game changes**._

"Wh-where did you go?"

"I had to run, of course. I spent years building a reputation as an orphan. My talent with music lent me an educated appearance and my control of my own magic was not found in Mudbloods. I had to do a fair bit of Confundus and Imperius Curses before I learned to work around my branding, I'll admit." He paused. "And as I said before...there is no human wholly immune to beauty. In that respect, my father left me his worth in something better than gold."

They talked late into the night. Hermione learned more of his past as a slave, learned of how he had studied music in Vienna for a time with the masters. She was still distraught from finding out how he had escaped, but knew it was too late to be a consideration any longer. They had made the Unbreakable Vow, and even beyond that: he could help her to her freedom.

Dawn was approaching and Hermione's eyes itched from sleep deprivation. Voldemort dismissed her, informing her that he would begin teaching her more magic in the morning.

As she was leaving his rooms, she stopped to look back at him.

"One final question," she postulated. Voldemort arched his brows at her though his apparent weariness hardly escaped her notice. "...You said something a while back, about how you knew when you first met me about my magic."

She waited for the words to sink in. "How did you know?"

It was a very tense silence that passed between them. Voldemort felt very close to her now physically. She was a bit disgusted with herself for noting how smooth his lips looked, or how his dark eyes roving over her made the very pit of her stomach warm with something she'd never felt before. Finally, he smiled at her.

"You cannot imagine, Lady Granger, how strange it was for a man like me to meet a girl like you. I had spent my whole life deceiving even the most brilliant wizards, and yet, when you stumbled in front of my carriage, I had the curious notion that you could see me quite clearly."

"...See you clearly?"

"Enough of this talk. Go to bed," he ordered abruptly, turning away. "Draco will not like to see his concubine so weary."

"...Good night," Hermione replied unsteadily. The door slammed shut in her face and she wandered in a daze back to her rooms. When she got there, she sensed something was amiss even before she stepped inside.

The door was ajar. On her bed sat Draco in his nightclothes. Hermione closed the door with a gentle click, steeling herself for the worst, but he simply looked up at her silently.

"M-master Malfoy," Hermione greeted, hoping to sound casual.

"I'm sorry I slapped you in front of everyone," he mumbled reluctantly, looking away again. His hands were folded in his lap. "I shan't embarrass myself like that ever again, I assure you."

There was the faintest hint of his usual self in his words. Hermione cautiously approached the bed.

"Why the apology?" she asked. "And, I accept," she added, for she knew that even if she didn't, it was her role to accept it graciously. Draco wouldn't meet her eyes.

"I would like to bed you tonight without holding you down," he continued, apparently growing more confident. Hermione blinked in surprise.

"I would prefer that. I find the restraints humiliating," she said honestly. Draco finally met her eyes.

"Take off your clothes," he ordered a bit hoarsely. It took a bit of courage to simply undress, but she managed to slip the nightdress over her head, revealing her naked body to him. "I won't punish you for being out of bed. Voldemort told me you admitted you liked to sit and listen to him play. To help you sleep."

Hermione didn't reply. So Voldemort must have planned for Draco discovering her out of bed and confronted him in between the ball and her meeting with him? Draco dragged her down onto the bed and turned her away from him so she faced the windows. The usual sickness rose in her as she felt him against her skin. One arm slung around her hips, dragging her back across the mattress. It was an awkward position, given that they were both lying on their sides.

He was grunting and sweating behind her, low moans in her ear, as she recalled what Voldemort had told her.

His pale hands on the keys as his dark eyes trained on her... and then that strange thing he had told her before ordering her to leave... She should have been disgusted that he had used the Killing curse, but as she thought of it, she wondered if, had she realized that same level of power at such a young age, she would've done any differently? Was she inherently good, or could all human beings be pushed to such brinks?

His darkness and complexity were beckoning to her. The warmth of their entwined hands hadn't left yet, and now it was radiating outward as she dwelled on how it had felt to hear him vow to, essentially, protect her and save her. Perhaps she had made a deal with the devil himself, and she wondered if, in the end, that was more morally reprehensible than a ten year old striking out at his captors? Was it worse to commit the deed or to simply go along with it?

And what were his plans that she was to follow? Now that she had glimpsed the depths of Voldemort, she had a better idea of what he was capable of. What if he really were just a ruthless killer? What if his actions had not been those of a cornered ten year old, but those of a born murderer?

All the same, he had to be quite powerful, if he had had _that_ much control of his own magic at such a young age. Most fully-fledged wizards with years of schooling and a perfectly working wand couldn't perform those curses.

All of that power... How did he plan to use it? Did he plan on overthrowing Grindelwald? Hermione pictured him on his dark horse, cloak flapping behind him, as he rode to Hogwarts Castle to murder King Grindelwald. It was all too easy to picture him dismounting, brandishing his yew wand with those lovely pale hands, his dark eyes taking in the sight of the castle and glimmering with a cold, cruel sense of purpose.

But picturing him preparing to murder Grindelwald led automatically to other images—her own brain was working against her, manufacturing images pieced from her darkest desires. His power was compelling, his arguments about humanity left her confused. A man had never before confused her. And perhaps she should have hated how this excited her, but she was too busy giving into thoughts of letting him have her, of pressing her lips to his, of feeling his arms around her, saving her, protecting her. In the morning she could acknowledge that these were notions of greatest foolishness—how could she possibly pretend to escape into the arms of a murderer?—but for now...

Finally, it was over. Hermione fell back against the pillows limply, staring in shock out the window at the moon. She wished he would remove his clammy hands from her. She would have liked nothing more than to be left alone with her own disgust. But Draco stayed, the weight of his arm around her increasing as he fell asleep. He was snoring in her ear.

Now she was wishing she could turn back time and back out of the Unbreakable Vow. She had jumped off the cliff and was now seeing that something much worse than rocks awaited her at the bottom. She could have handled physical pain. Hermione considered herself strong enough to handle most anything, really.

But could she handle orchestrating her own corruption?

The only thing that lay at the bottom, waiting for her, was a gaping, black abyss.


	6. Act Six: Musette

Lacrimosa

Author's Note: As usual, you guys sent such lovely reviews and PMs (and tweets! yay!) so I felt super encouraged to write. I am taking a break from studying at the moment. It is much-needed.

Also, I am considered starting to publish my e-books online (priced at less than a dollar each, most likely. Hopefully will start around 25 cents). Would anyone be interested in buying them? Just curious. For 'The Scientist' readers, I'm turning it into an original series with books also about the romances of the side characters. Any takers?

Disclaimer: the HP universe does not belong to me; I am just borrowing.

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><p><strong>Act Six: Musette<strong>

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><p>Waking up next to Draco was an unwelcome situation. Hermione had long been accustomed to sharing beds with other maids, but obviously, that had been different. She also disliked sleeping naked. Over the course of the night, the sheets had shifted and Draco was lying half on top of her, still snoring loudly in her ear. The room still smelled like sex and all Hermione could think of was how delightful a bath would be at the moment.<p>

Unfortunately, Draco apparently enjoyed sleeping late. Well after the church bells had resounded throughout Hogsmeade, Draco slept on. Hermione was unsure of whether she was allowed to wake him, and thus lay half-crushed beneath him, trying to not focus on how her arm and hip were cramping up and how her skin was sticking to Draco's grotesquely. At the moment, she was resenting him more than a lot.

Still, he had apologized last night, hadn't he? Draco_ had_ shown a sliver of human decency. It didn't make up for slapping her publicly, but it did take away a bit of the sting. Realistically, Hermione knew there were a select few Purebloods who would have even considered the slap worthy of an apology. In fact, not only had he apologized, but he hadn't punished her, either.

Now Hermione was beginning to become really curious about Draco.

She was just considering pretending to roll over in her sleep to wake him when there was a knock on her door.

"Lord Voldemort requires you in his chambers, _dearest,_" came Umbridge's silvery, girlish voice. Hermione grimaced at the sound while she debated whether to respond or not. Was it more important to keep Draco or Umbridge happy? Draco could beat her, but Umbridge was in charge of her supply of food...and that supply was already meager enough. Then there was another voice, jarring Hermione from her strategising.

"She can't possibly be asleep still. Mudbloods never sleep late," came Voldemort's smooth baritone. Hermione's eyes widened and she panicked, frantically clawing at the sheets to cover her body as she heard the inevitable sound of the knob turning.

"H-hello, Lord Voldemort. Madame Umbridge," greeted Hermione awkwardly as the door swung open. Hermione was aware of how she and Draco looked: he was sprawled naked on top of her, the sheets twisted around their form, hair beyond mussed. Madame Umbridge was looking disgustedly at her, but Voldemort's face was impassive as ever. She did not allow herself to dwell on what he might think of such a scene.

"We should let Master Dr—" began Umbridge, but as usual, Voldemort had no interest in common human decency, and he did not hesitate to bark out an order.

"Draco. Get up."

Draco jerked awake at the sound of Voldemort's voice. Blinking blearily for a moment, he took in his surroundings. Hermione marveled at how he did not seem embarrassed in the slightest to be caught naked with a Mudblood by his father's friend and the head maid. On the contrary, he languidly stretched a bit as he looked at Voldemort. It was almost like he was taunting the young composer. Voldemort's lips curved into a snide smirk, as though he were little more than amused by the attempt.

"Let me guess: you need to borrow my Mudblood?" Draco drawled, the sheets hanging low on his hips provocatively. "We're a bit busy now, you know," he added in a condescending purr. Hermione was struck by the strange and new change in dynamic between Malfoy and Voldemort. Why did Draco seem like he felt he suddenly had gained the upper hand? Meanwhile, Umbridge was turning puce.

"Oh, I'm certain that in a moment or two, you'll be quite finished," said Voldemort silkily as he turned away. "When Draco's _finished_, direct Lady Granger to my rooms, Madame Umbridge." After issuing the order, Voldemort sauntered off. Somehow, Hermione knew he was likely smirking to himself. The view of him leaving was not a bad one, and the events of the prior night — including what had occurred when Draco had been making use of her — came back in an embarrassing rush, coloring her cheeks.

Hermione glanced at Draco just as Umbridge was looking at Draco warily. Draco's nostrils flared as he rose from the bed, not even caring that two people were in the vicinity of his nakedness. Privately, Hermione thought he ought to be a little more discrete. As a slave, she had seen plenty of naked men in her time, and Draco had little to impress others with.

"Bloody smug bastard. Fine. Go to your stupid music lesson, Mudblood," he hissed scathingly as he yanked on his clothes. He shot a vicious scowl at Umbridge as he stalked out of the room, and after his footsteps disappeared round the corner, Umbridge turned to Hermione, a sickeningly, simpering sweet smile on her toadish face.

"I suppose I should pick up some herbs to prevent childbirth," she said smugly. Hermione's face darkened.

"Perhaps you should, unless you want to look after a half-Mudblood, half-Malfoy child?" she snapped back at the woman as she clutched the sheets while rising from the bed. Umbridge looked flabbergasted by Hermione's rude response. Inwardly Hermione slapped herself for being so outspoken. Again, this woman was in charge of her food. It was unwise to displease her if she could help it. "Well, it's the truth," she added hastily to try and amend the situation. "They didn't pay for a new mother; they bought a concubine."

Apparently satisfied with Hermione's explanation, Umbridge hobbled off, though Hermione thought grimly that if she didn't get dinner tonight, it would be for a reason. Hermione washed up and pulled on a simple cerise-colored dress with lace trimming. She considered what she had learned last night, wishing she had more time to devise a strategy for dealing with Voldemort.

There were a number of things she needed to figure out at some point. The biggest question was why Voldemort required her to follow his orders. What were his goals? He'd said he wouldn't tell her, but she planned on finding a way around that, naturally. If he really were planning on overthrowing Grindelwald, she could not yet determine her feelings on that. Grindelwald was the reason for her oppression, but then, weren't all residents of Hogsmeade upholding the system?

Besides, overthrowing the king was impractical: Hermione knew plenty of other Mudbloods, and she knew that her defiance of the slavery was a rare thing indeed. Most people had become resigned to their lot in life. And the ugly truth was that even if they did acquire freedom, it would likely be centuries before Purebloods and Mudbloods coexisted peacefully—if it ever happened at all. For now, generations of Mudbloods would be subjected to the Muggle way of life. And at the moment, that meant being subjected to disease and plagues and extreme impoverishment. Being a Mudblood was torture, but at least it meant staying alive.

And yet...Voldemort was no fool, so he _must_ have seen this logic. This could only mean that he had some other, unforeseen plan. How could she go about finding it out?

_Better to wait and see what my 'orders' are. Those will be the biggest clues_, she decided before knocking on Voldemort's door. Without waiting for a response, she turned the knob.

"I see I was correct about Draco," commented Voldemort as Hermione shut the door behind herself. "How is he in bed?"

"I shall not dignify that question with a response," sputtered Hermione indignantly as she turned to face him. However, being faced with his lovely countenance and his prying question only reminded her of what had happened: that strange, coiling, blushing feeling whilst thinking of Voldemort...

"Oh, but you already have," he said slyly, rising from the piano bench. "I suppose he has purchased you for his pleasure alone and finds no delight in pleasing you?"

Hermione looked away.

"It is a private matter," she said coolly. When she turned to look at him again, she noted that he was reaching for a cloak. "Are you going somewhere? I thought we were having a lesson..."

"Fetch your cloak. I have received permission to take you into Hogsmeade. The Malfoys are under the false impression that we are going to observe a rehearsal in the Opera House."

"Where are we going, then?"

There was a flutter of excitement in Hermione's stomach that could not be ignored.

"Get your cloak, Lady Granger," Voldemort repeated shortly, though there was a wicked grin playing on his pale lips. Hermione rather grumpily complied and all but sprinted down the corridor to her rooms to sweep a matching cloak over her dress. It was strange to have choices for a wardrobe; she felt frivolous. When she swirled the heavy, luxurious fabric around her thin shoulders she could only reflect on how a Mudblood had probably sewn this cloak by dying candlelight, fingers aching and eyes burning from exhaustion, head and stomach throbbing from pervasive hunger.

It sickened her.

"Tell me," she demanded once they had left Malfoy Manor on foot. It was an unusually sunny winter's day, with bright sunlight bleaching everything and reflecting off the snow. Voldemort held out the crook of his arm for her to take, as dictated by manners. In spite of the frosty air, Hermione felt warmth at the contact. Again she had to staunch the thoughts of that feeling from the night before. It was better to not analyse it at all; it had happened, yes, but perhaps it had just been a fluke? "Where are we going?"

"We have a few errands," replied Voldemort, his expression unchanging. "First, I want to test your proficiency in other forms of wandless magic."

Hermione balked at his words.

"How? I'll get caught—"

"Not if you do it right. Here we are."

They had reached one of the outdoor markets of Hogsmeade, overflowing with shouting vendors and peddlers. It was packed with merchants and shoppers, as well as vagrants looking for a free spot of food. They stood at one end of the alley, surveying the throng of people. Hermione was taking great pleasure in observing the scene, so when she felt Voldemort's lips brush her ear, she nearly jumped a foot in the air. His arm hooked in hers managed to hide the motion well enough. "Do you see the Spaniard at the very end?" he whispered, his breath tickling the shell of her ear. She drew in a deep breath quickly.

"The chocolate peddler?" He was an olive-skinned man who must have once been quite handsome, dressed in a dark cloak by a stand piled with bricks of chocolate. Hermione's mouth watered—she had tasted the stuff once.

"Precisely. You must take two pieces of chocolate without being discovered and without using nonmagic means."

Hermione glanced at Voldemort, forgetting her lust due to her irritation with the man.

"Are you going to teach me any useful spells? Because _locomotor_ is hardly subtle," she said dryly, earning a smirk from the composer.

"I'm quite sure you can devise a suitable strategy on your own. Now go. Do not come back until you have two pieces of chocolate."

Hermione's temper flared and she glowered at Voldemort as he turned to examine a set of gold cauldrons at another stand.

"Any preference for kind of chocolate?" she asked sarcastically. To her annoyance, Voldemort had the gall to look thoughtful.

"I prefer bitter tastes," he said after a moment, leaving Hermione to storm off towards the chocolate peddler.

She tucked herself in between two stands across the way and stared in thought at the large bricks of chocolate. There was no way she could just hover the chocolate...and she knew that these vendors were well-prepared for the sort of spells that might create a diversion, as beggars used such tricks constantly.

So how could she get that chocolate?

There was also the fact that stealing was _wrong_, but she reasoned that this could be the peddler's contribution to the future freedom of Mudbloods. This was already a morally corrupt assignment, so... was it that _terrible_ to use further morally corrupt means of obtaining the chocolate?

She suddenly knew how she was going to do it.

"Excuse me, sir," she said sweetly as she approached the Spanish man, "which of these is your bitterest chocolate?"

For several moments the peddler rambled on, pointing at the chocolates, and when he was looking away, she took her chance.

"_Confundus_," she said under her breath. For a moment, the peddler looked blankly at the wall. There was no time to be pleased that it had actually worked (which she had not been anticipating) so Hermione swiped two of the bitter chocolates into the pocket of her cloak. When the Confundus Charm had worn off, the man turned back to her.

"Which chocolates would the lady like?" he asked pleasantly. Hermione felt a stab of guilt for stealing and resolved that after she was free, and had a bit of money, she would come back and buy the entire stand of chocolate from the man—and, _perhaps,_ she'd share a bit of it (not a lot) with Voldemort.

"Oh, I decided I don't want any today," she replied innocently before ducking away hastily and weaving through the crowds back to a very pleased-looking Voldemort.

"Confundus charm? Not too shabby. Where is my chocolate?" he asked slyly as they began walking away. Hermione glanced around, feeling paranoid, before slipping one of the pieces into Voldemort's pale hand.

"I can't believe a man like you has a penchant for sweets," she said, shaking her head. Still, she too slipped the chocolate into her mouth. To her now, it was the taste of freedom.

"I can't believe a woman like you — who is so insistent on how 'moral' she is — has done nothing but immoral things for the past week," countered Voldemort lightly. "Still, you did pass the test. I was hoping you would try a Confundus charm — they're of much greater use to you than something like _locomotor_ or some other obvious spell."

Hermione did not wish to admit that he was right, so she simply scowled into the distance as she enjoyed the taste of the chocolate.

"Wand?" she asked pointedly after finishing the chocolate. Voldemort offered her his arm again, and Hermione tried to not feel too pleased by the interaction.

"In due time, little girl," he said in a smirking tone. "You're far too impatient."

"Well, you had at _least_ better teach me other useful spells. I don't know that many, and it is too difficult to just invent them on the spot," she sniffed. She met Voldemort's eyes, reveling in the way he looked at her. There was something different about his gaze on her—something warm and indulgent—that she usually did not find in his eyes.

They began walking again and Hermione's heart skipped a beat when she recognized a familiar head of flaming red hair. _Ron._

"C-can we go a different route?" she asked unsteadily. Her anger at her old flame had not resolved itself, and she did not wish to confront Ron again. He was walking with one of his older brothers, Charles.

"Ah, the Pureblood you fancied yourself in love with?" Voldemort asked shrewdly. Hermione stubbornly stopped in the road.

"I wish to not see him," she said plainly. Despite the fact that she _knew_ she had good reason to not want to confront Ron, Voldemort was making her feel like a spoiled toddler with her behavior. Voldemort arched his elegant brows at her.

"You'd rather scamper off? How pathetic and cowardly."

Fury of a self-defensive nature welled up inside her at his remark

"I'm not pathetic and cowardly. I'm _hurt_," she snapped in a defensive hiss. Voldemort scoffed.

"You had me fooled," he replied coldly. "You wish to be free and yet you continue to let Purebloods dictate which route you take?"

His words ignited something in her. Hermione turned to look at Ron, her anger washing over her in boiling waves. He had already done so much to alter the course of her life—Voldemort had a fair point. Why was she still allowing him power?

"Fine. We shall take the same route," she said finally, holding her chin up a bit higher. The delight that she felt at the hint of a smirk on Voldemort's lips was curious.

"Good girl," he said softly, before taking her arm again and resuming their walk. "Do not look away. Do not slump your shoulders," he directed under his breath. "When you are a free Mudblood, every day you will have to convince the world around you of the purity of your blood. From now on, whenever possible, you must carry yourself as though you are a Pureblood with legal right to possess a wand and property."

Hermione walked a bit taller, the luxurious fabric of her dress and cloak swirling about her in the blustery day, as she approached the two Weasley brothers. The notion that she was on the arm of arguably one of the rising stars of the court struck her. Now she noticed how people turned to stare at them in interest. They were wondering who the lady on Lord Voldemort's arm was.

Ron caught sight of her and she watched his ears turn red: a telltale sign that he was feeling some sort of extreme emotion. Charles followed Ron's gaze; privately Hermione had always felt that he and Bill were by far the most intelligent of the Weasley children, and as expected, his reaction was not as obvious as that of Ron.

"Lady Granger," he greeted for Ron, who was shocked into silence and would not look at Hermione in the eye. _Coward,_ she thought a bit meanly before berating herself for letting her viciousness come out. It was not fair of her to hold Ron to the same standards to which she held herself—his life did not require bravery, so why should she have ever expected it of him? "And you must be—"

"Thomas Voldemort," replied Voldemort coolly. Charles kicked Ron to get him to bow. "You must be members of the Weasley family." His eyes traveled pointedly to the two brothers' flaming hair.

"I'm honored that such an important man knows of our family," replied Charles politely. "Hogsmeade has spoken of nothing but your music ever since your debut. Charles Weasley—and this is my brother, Ronald."

Ron was still staring at Hermione.

"It's not polite to stare, Master Weasley," said Hermione coldly. She was having difficulty hiding her smirk, but luckily Voldemort cut in.

"While I appreciate that Lady Granger is quite the lovely creature and well worth staring, we happen to be short on time. If you will excuse us," he interrupted dryly, steering Hermione away from the gawking Ron and uncomfortable Charlie. As they were walking away, Hermione caught bits of the Weasley brothers' conversation: 'idiot' 'whore' and 'rude git' were some of the words exchanged, and Hermione found herself grinning.

"Lovely creature? Well worth staring?" she prodded Voldemort teasingly as he led her along the bumpy, rutted road. Suddenly the sunshine seemed even cheerier and less harsh. She caught his eye.

"I had to do _something_ to get us away from there. And we truly are running late," he said rather quickly, which Hermione decided to leave alone for the moment. Hermione noted they were approaching the dodgier end of Hogsmeade now; the pristine homes of the rich Purebloods were beginning to darken and crumble, giving way to the slums. The streets were shadowed with makeshift, unsteady buildings and clotheslines crossing overhead. Despite being of the lowest class possible, Hermione felt she and Voldemort stood out here—now that she had fine clothing and had eaten a few decent meals, she was resembling a Mudblood less and less. And of course, Voldemort stood out wherever he went.

And she knew enough from her various instances of unsuccessful escape plans that standing out in the slums was a poor choice indeed. Shadowed figures of the nearly-passed-on swathed in patchy and frayed blankets stared at them with haunted, yellowing eyes. Yells and cries from inside the shabby dwellings punctured the frosty air.

"It's practically like the Muggle world here," said Voldemort thoughtfully. Hermione's stomach clenched as the reality of her situation sank in: even if she did escape, odds were she would be no better off than the beggars that lay in the roads, waiting for their moment of death. "It is truly a wonder that the plague has not struck here yet."

"No one would dare venture out of Hogsmeade without magical protection," noted Hermione as they came to a stop at a disintegrated door. "What are we doing here?"

"Do not worry your pretty little head about it. Just come inside and be yourself," said Voldemort placatingly. Hermione stopped him from knocking on the door to glower at him.

"Is this part of your—"

"Yes, and I shan't tell you anything more of it. Do as I say or suffer the consequences of violating the Unbreakable Vow," said Voldemort coldly, his gaze turning from affectionate to flinty in a matter of seconds. Hermione tried to not shrink at his icy delivery and frosty look.

"Fine," she said sullenly, moving out of the way to allow him to knock.

Nearly at once, something quite strange occurred: the door melted into nothingness. Voldemort smirked to himself.

"After you, milady," he said with a slight bow. Hermione rolled her eyes before cautiously stepping into the darkness.

Inside it was nearly pitch black. Behind them, the door reappeared, swallowing all of the light so that they could not see more than a few paces in front of them. "Master Ollivander?" Voldemort's voice had again morphed: now it was that sensuous baritone that could melt the iciest of personalities. Out of nowhere, two glowing, luminous, vaguely feline eyes appeared.

"_Lumos_," a rasping voice hissed as a light appeared in front of the eyes, casting an ancient and withered-looking face in high, horrible relief. "Ah, Lord Voldemort," rasped the voice. The owner waved his wand and dozens of candles quite suddenly set the room aglow. Strangely, the room was quite empty. The hairs on the back of Hermione's neck were beginning to prickle.

"Master Ollivander. This is a dear friend of mine: Lady Hermione Granger," introduced Voldemort sweetly. Ollivander hobbled over to them. Up close and in the light, Hermione could see that he was garbed in the filthiest rag of cloth. He looked no better — perhaps worse, in fact — than a house elf. Ollivander bowed and took her hand to kiss it as Hermione curtsied deeply.

"I was wondering when you might seek me out," he said hoarsely as he released Hermione's hand. Voldemort was apparently feigning innocence.

"I beg your pardon, Master Ollivander—" he began, but as Ollivander was turning away, he cut in.

"Severus," he explained. Apparently the name held meaning for Voldemort, because for a moment, his smooth exterior faltered and she could see he was taken aback. "Severus has told me."

Hermione watched as Voldemort licked his lips; she could see he was mentally changing tactics quickly.

"I have given up on _that_ particular quest. I seek for nothing more than to give myself to God through my music," he explained with a nod of his head. Hermione realized he was nodding in deference to a wooden cross mounted on the wall. "I simply came to introduce you to this lovely young woman. She is of the sharpest wit in all of Hogsmeade. That, and I had heard that you have not been faring well."

Ollivander gestured for them to follow as he led them into another room, also windowless like the first. At least this room had a small table and chairs.

"Since the rise of Grindelwald, life has not been kind to me, I will admit," he said bitterly. "I would offer you a drink or food, but I have none. You may sit."

Hermione hesitantly took a seat, noting how Ollivander's huge eyes lingered on her for longer than she might have considered normal. "I see that, as usual, life has treated Voldemort with great kindness," he said, still gazing at Hermione. "I did not know you planned to marry."

"She is not my wife, but a friend of Lucius Malfoy's son. We were recently introduced. Tell Master Ollivander about yourself, Hermione," coaxed Voldemort. Hermione felt her cheeks flush as she fumbled for words.

"Her magic—I can feel it. Have you a wand?" Ollivander interrupted her curiously. Hermione looked to Voldemort for help.

"Perhaps," he said lightly. "She is the only woman in all of Hogsmeade that I have found worthy of conversation, Master Ollivander." He was changing the subject, and Ollivander did not look fooled.

Gaining confidence, Hermione took a chance to speak.

"I'm a lover of knowledge, Master Ollivander," she explained eagerly. This, at least, was truth so she need not pretend. Ollivander seemed to light up.

"And do you read much, Lady Granger?"

"Whenever I can."

"How intriguing. It is unusual for a lady of your status to concern herself with anything other than pretty dresses," he observed, edging closer to Hermione, wringing his hands on his filthy clothing.

"Quite. I just recalled that we've somewhere to be quite soon, Master Ollivander. I apologize for the abruptness of our visit," interrupted Voldemort, rising from his seat quickly. Ollivander looked displeased.

"Already? You've just arrived," he groused. Hermione took her cue and rose from her seat, trying to not stare at Voldemort curiously. Really, what had this visit been about?

"You know how busy life can be, sir. I'll be back again soon when we've more time."

Before Ollivander could utter another word, Voldemort was ushering Hermione out of the dark little room. Outside in the sunshine, it felt as though she had been awakened by a douse of ice water.

"What on earth—"

"No questions. You've done well," said Voldemort as he cast a grin at Hermione. "Very well indeed. Come to my rooms tonight and I shall teach you more useful spells; for now, we must make haste. It is late in the morning and we will be missed."

Hermione longed to learn more about the strange Ollivander, but every time she tried to ask, Voldemort threatened to put off his teachings for another night, effectively quieting Hermione.

For weeks after that day, she could not remove the image of Ollivander's haunting gaze from her mind, nor could she forget how it had felt to confront Ron purposefully. Beneath these was the mystery of Voldemort and, perhaps, the strange attraction forming... perhaps she was simply imagining it.


	7. Act Seven: Battaglia

Lacrimosa

Author's Note: Thank you, everyone, for your patience with the slow updates. I usually don't like to wait so long between updates, but Life has a nasty habit of getting in the way.

Disclaimer: the HP universe does not belong to me; I am just borrowing.

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><p><strong>Act Seven: Battaglia<strong>

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><p>Tom deposited Hermione in her private chambers and was eagerly returning to his own for a chance to work on some compositions when he was interrupted by Lucius. The elder Malfoy accosted him in the hallway with that sickening, simpering smile that instilled in him the urge to reach for his wand.<p>

"Master Voldemort; it is too kind of you to take a lowly Mudblood's education so seriously. We cannot thank you enough, especially after what you have done for Draco."

Tom's eyes roved over Lucius; the man's wig took up nearly all of the hallway. What could the occasion possibly be?

"What is it you wish for, Lucius?" he asked finally, appraising his benefactor. Lucius' smile tightened. "Do not bore me with flattery; it will get you nowhere," he added, casting a look of longing into his rooms at his awaiting piano. Lucius adjusted his wig in apparent embarrassment.

"I see. To cut to the chase, Draco will be visiting his godfather today. Years ago, Draco managed to offend him, which was quite problematic as Draco was in a position to be his apprentice." Lucius gestured for Tom to walk with him and Tom weighed his options before grudgingly conceding to follow the blonde man. After such a morning, all he wished for was to be seated before his piano, but it seemed that would have to wait.

"I cannot change Draco's character."

They were descending the stairs now; Draco was waiting by the front door, clad in his most ridiculous coat and largest wig. _So they wish to use me as I have used Hermione,_ Tom mused. Draco's godfather had to be someone of significant importance, if Lucius was willing to beg Tom for this favor. They also were likely to be well-connected, in order that his presence would have the intended effect.

"But we believe that seeing you with the boy will perhaps mitigate any unpleasant views of him. Once he learns that you have taken Draco under your wing, perhaps then he will reconsider Draco's apprenticeship."

Draco did not look pleased at all. They reached Lucius' son and Tom watched Draco carefully for his reaction to his father. Surprisingly, Draco gave away nothing but a general displeasure, which was often found on his countenance anyway.

"Who is this godfather, if I may ask?"

"The resident potions master and alchemist for His Royal Majesty King Grindelwald — Severus Snape himself." Lucius paused, his eyes glittering with pleasure as he took in the surprise that Tom could not quite mask in time. "You must have heard of him, Master Voldemort. He's something of a legend; not unlike yourself."

Tom hastened to master himself. _Stupid Lucius_. The foolish man probably thought he was simply impressed at his name-dropping, but it was nothing of _that_ sort. "If you do not have a prior engagement, I would like you to do this now," Lucius added silkily. Tom allowed the fool to think he had suddenly gained the upper hand in their dynamic.

"Certainly, Lord Malfoy — anything for you, after all you have done for me," he replied smoothly.

Fetching his cloak was the chance to assure himself that he was prepared for this particular meeting. As he was leaving his room he spotted a crack in the doorway to Hermione's chambers. The girl must have been eavesdropping, which was hardly surprising. _After all, it is what I would be doing_... he paused to quirk his eyebrows at the crack in the door, wondering if she had somehow learnt a Disillusionment charm.

"Good afternoon, Lady Granger," he said into the otherwise still air of the corridor. He heard a squeak followed by a bang before Hermione's bushy hair came into view. She must have been perched in a crouch behind the door.

"How did you know?" she complained in a hiss. "Where are they making you go?"

Tom checked to see whether they had eavesdroppers of their own, but Lucius and Draco were wrapped up in an argument concerning the whiteness of Draco's wig. Still, that Umbridge woman might be wandering around, and her knowledge of their interactions would be problematic.

"I will see you this evening when I return, Lady Granger," he said before turning to leave. He heard the door slam and he stifled a smirk. Hermione's temperament was often amusing.

He and Draco were put in a carriage to take them to Snape's residence outside the castle; Draco was clutching a silver box, presumably filled with jewels, to present to Snape as an apology. The doors were shut and soon they were hobbling along, bits of snow finding their way inside the austere interior of this carriage. Tom had once known Severus Snape well, and he knew that the potionsmaster would be less than impressed by a silly box of jewels.

Truly he was a bit surprised when Draco turned to him, a fevered expression on his pointed face.

"Where have you been taking my Mudblood, Voldemort?" he demanded in a hiss. It was another example of how different Draco was from his father in so many ways: Lucius had all of the perceptiveness of a sow dropped on its head repeatedly. Draco, conversely, picked up on lots of things. Still, it was easy to smooth his features into a mask of indifference. Draco was smart, but not as smart as Tom.

"To the Opera, young Master Draco," he said sweetly, raising his eyebrows slightly for the full effect of innocence. This did little more than irritate Draco, whose lip curled in displeasure. Luckily they had arrived before Draco could further question him, though their destination was no more comfortable to Tom. He had not seen Severus in a long time, and for good reason. But it was not in his nature to be cowed by others, and thus he would not shy from this challenge.

Considering Severus' important position, he likely was paid enough gold to have a palace of his own. But predictably the potions master's house was little more than a cave: he resided in the same crumbling stone dwelling that he had grown up in, on one of the quieter edges of Hogsmeade. Draco was making noises to make perfectly clear his disdain for this part of Hogsmeade, but nonetheless the blonde boy knocked at the shabby wooden door with his free hand.

With a sickening creak, the door opened, letting in a gust of snow-filled wind.

It was a shock to see Severus. After so many years, little had changed about the alchemy prodigy. His hooked nose perhaps had become more prominent, and there were new lines between his dark eyebrows that had not been there ten years prior. But his long, sweeping black robes and curtain of thin, oily black hair were exactly the same. Perhaps he had gained a bit of weight, but that was to be expected: having enough to eat changed everything, didn't it?

Draco at least had the grace to look a bit intimidated by the sight of Snape. Tom supposed that most people might find the man intimidating; he rarely smiled and when he did it was often at the misfortune of others. He was also tall, and while he hunched, it only added to his macabre appearance.

"Uncle," Draco greeted, sweeping into a deep bow as Lucius had instructed him to do. Severus' beetle-black eyes swept distastefully over Draco's bent form, his eyes lingering on the box of jewels in obvious disgust. "I have come to apologize, and I bring company. Meet—"

"We've already met," interrupted Snape, his eyes now meeting Tom's. "Voldemort," he said silkily. Draco straightened from his bow, awkwardly holding out the silver box. "You look well, Voldemort."

"As do you, Snape. I take it his Majesty has treated you well," Tom replied. There was a flash of unease; his old and new lives were currently intersecting, and he disliked it when they did. Luckily, Severus had a few secrets of his own that Tom happened to be privy to, and it acted as insurance that neither man ever told the other's secret.

"May we come in, Uncle Severus?" Draco asked, edging closer to the door. "It is quite cold."

Severus looked hardly fooled by Draco's newly-donned syrupy demeanor. Rather tellingly, Severus' eyes flicked to Tom again. Tom wondered if Draco had picked up on the tension.

"I suppose," he finally sighed. When he turned, his black robes swirled around him impressively, and he waved a pale hand, gesturing for them to follow him. Remembering all of Severus' secrets, Tom began to wonder if this meeting could work to his own advantage — as well as Hermione's — or not.

Severus' home was a dark, one-room affair with stone and wooden walls and an enormous black cauldron in the center. Blue flames warmed its underbelly and crackled, though the rest of the room received none of its warmth. A faint, flowery scent that Tom instantly recognized permeated the air. The scent was like a slap in the face to him.

At first blush, Severus might have appeared to be dirt poor. But upon closer inspection, evidence of his enviable wealth could be found: pure crystal phials of powerful potions glittered behind glass, gleaming potions equipment of the finest calibre hung from rusty nails on the walls. Severus had no interest in fine clothing or showy possessions—he was obsessed with the art of alchemy.

"What are you making now?" Draco asked, setting aside the silver box and peering into the cauldron.

"A powerful potion for the King. Touch it and you shall not survive to tell the tale," Severus drawled, making no move to pull Draco from the cauldron. "If you were truly talented enough to become my apprentice, you would already recognize that potion on scent alone—it is quite a distinctive one." Draco flushed at Severus' words and hastily backed from the cauldron.

"So then you shan't reconsider..." he began tentatively, casting around for the silver box again which had been left on a tabletop. Severus' lip curled.

"Absolutely not. You are a foolish boy who prides himself on the antics which he gets himself into with his moronic friends. You possess none of the delicacy or introspectiveness required for a true Potions master."

Tom saw his opening and moved in to strike.

"Let us set aside that nonsense for now. Severus, I have been charged with watching over Draco for a few months now. He has grown into a respectable young man. The best example is in how he cares for his newest Mudblood concubine. You must see it yourself to believe it. She's brilliant; I have only ever met one woman like her before..."

Draco's features drew into a look of horror, and rightly so—other men of Severus' station would be bored and perhaps offended by any mention of something as lowly as as Mudblood. But tellingly Severus' posture straightened a bit, and Tom knew he had his attention now.

"Perhaps I may drop by for supper some time. It has been so long since I have seen Lucius and Narcissa," said Snape thoughtfully. A flash of shocked relief crossed Draco's face, and Tom pressed his lips together to hide his pleasure with himself. He had always been good at getting what he needed from others, even though Severus could be notably difficult.

Now all he needed to do was find out why Severus was brewing Amortentia.

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><p>A wave of nausea passed through Hermione; she supposed it was because the only thing she had consumed since the prior evening was that piece of chocolate. Her stomach was unaccustomed to rich, sweet foods. After lying on the floor for a few moments, waiting for it to pass, she rose again, wiping the sheen of sweat from her forehead.<p>

Malfoy Manor was still and quiet: everyone was out, even Madame Umbridge. Relishing the chance to return to the library, Hermione crept down the stairs, moving in and out of shafts of pale wintry sunlight that came in through cracks in the heavy drapes on each window.

When she made it to the library, there wasn't enough time to rejoice being among the books; she had to steal a few unremarkable-looking spell books. For good measure, she took a few fiction books as well, and stole back up the stairs to her room with the intent of passing the afternoon and evening practising. She would be working again with Voldemort tonight, and she had every intent of impressing him.

Having performed the Confundus Charm gave her a boost of much-needed self-confidence. Hermione pored over spells, learning to perform the most basic spells that most wizard children knew: _aguamenti_, and a spell to cast blue fire that could be scooped up, and _scourgify. _She could hardly contain herself; after creating the blue fire and putting it out with _aguamenti_, she deemed that enough practise for one day and hid the books in her wardrobe with some of the others that she had stolen.

The sky had darkened when everyone returned to Malfoy Manor. Hermione's stomach growled with gnawing hunger, and normally this was something she could ignore, but the nausea that accompanied it made it intolerable. She heard them dining downstairs, and determined that they had simply forgotten to feed her. Unwilling to go hungry, Hermione opened the door in the hopes of catching Umbridge or another one of the maids.

The hall was dark. Unsure of whether this would earn her a beating or not, Hermione slinked along the corridor, listening carefully for anyone coming up the stairs. She froze when she heard the telltale creaking and recognized the footsteps as that of Draco. With a stifled gasp, Hermione ducked back into the shadows, but it was too late: Draco had seen her.

"Mudblood, what are you doing out of your room?" he demanded. He looked weary; he was removing his wig to reveal his straight blonde hair beneath. His grey eyes roved over her.

"I-I was hungry," she explained a bit sheepishly. "I've not eaten since last night's supper, and—" She paused, waiting for Draco to reprimand her, but he simply ran his hand over his face tiredly.

"Come to the kitchens; I am sure there is food left." He turned on his heel and Hermione tentatively followed after him, waiting to find out this to be a trick or joke of some sort. They ghosted past the dining room, where sounds of Voldemort's voice and Lucius' laughter floated through the door. Hermione felt an inexplicable pang at Voldemort's sensuous baritone; it had not been more than half a day and already she longed to see him again.

Thankfully before she could reflect on that too much, they had reached the bustling kitchens, teeming with House Elves and maids preparing the desserts.

"Some dinner and wine," Draco ordered one of the maids. Almost immediately he was handing her a plate of steaming, fresh food: profiteroles stuffed with thinly sliced beef, freshly caught fish, and candied fruits. "Eat it here."

Feeling slightly uncomfortable about Draco watching her eating, Hermione started in on the food. It was too rich, and she knew she'd feel quite sick later, but soon she forgot her embarrassment and began wolfing down the food. She had never tasted such cuisine and after a lifetime of soggy, mouldy bread and gruel, the different tastes were almost too much. "I suppose a Mudblood like you is not accustomed to fine foods," Draco mused as he watched her. The elves and maids were giving them quite a wide berth, and feeling sympathetic, Hermione edged out of their way.

"I haven't ever tasted anything like that," she admitted, feeling sick from fullness. An elf whisked her plate away and Hermione felt a stab of guilt at being served, but before it could come to fruition, Draco was pulling her away from the kitchens.

She had expected that he might order her back to her rooms, but instead Draco walked with her up the stairs. Quite suddenly, in the darkness of the hall, he grasped her, pushing her against the wall, his lips on her neck.

"Where does Voldemort take you every day?" his breath was hot on her neck; instinctively Hermione struggled against him as her back hit the wooden paneling of the wall and they became ensconced in shadow.

"Th-the Opera," she stammered, gasping in surprise when he suddenly forced her to face the wall, his hands roughly shoving her skirts up around her waist. She knew she was not allowed to protest, so she scrunched her eyes shut, forcing herself to think of the feeling of creating those blue flames. She waited for the pain of entry, but nothing happened except a cry of shock from Draco.

Hermione's eyes flew open and she turned to look at what had happened: Draco was growling in pain, stumbling backwards from her and rubbing his side. Out of the corner of her eye, she saw a flash of dark blue. At once she became self-conscious when she realized that there was another person present, and she yanked her skirts back down, her cheeks and neck flushing with humiliation.

A few metres away, at the top of the stairs, Voldemort was standing there clutching a wand, his expression of perfect impassivity.

"V-voldemort! You bastard; that bloody well hurt—" Draco gasped, still massaging his side. Voldemort slowly lowered his wand.

"Oh. Sorry. I thought we had an intruder," said Voldemort flatly, stowing his wand in the pocket of his waistcoat. It didn't take a genius to see that he was quite blatantly lying. Draco was snarling at Voldemort, drawing out his own wand. "Do take your _business_ in private from now on, young Master Draco. We wouldn't want you to have certain important body parts cursed off by _accident_," he added cordially before turning and entering his rooms, slamming the door shut.

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><p>Tom slammed the door to his rooms shut before removing his waistcoat and tossing it aside rather angrily. He retrieved his wand and cast the usual wards on the room before finally slumping down at his blessed piano. Without consciously striving for it, his fingers found a tune on their own. It was an angry, chaotic, syncopated sound that was befitting to his current mood.<p>

For quite some time now, his compositions had been straying from their classical rigidity of form and moving to something more expressive, dark, and passionate, but this was the first time he completely disregarded the dispassionate functionality of the current style of music. This was music from his very soul, reflecting the storminess of how he was feeling. He could not reveal this side of his talents yet, for he knew that the world was not ready for this change in style.

But it mattered not, for he was currently content to keep this to himself, and to revel in his own talents. Music had always been his key to freedom, and he used it now. His fingers moved independently as he scowled out the window.

_Why_ had Amortentia smelled like Hermione Granger's skin to him? Why had he immediately thrown a curse at Draco when he had seen them writhing together? He was not usually this lacking in self-control. He felt like a wounded and cornered animal, out of control and hurtling through the darkness. He had been planning on using Hermione to draw in Severus, but now he was beginning to wonder if he would be able to handle seeing another man look at her in admiration and desire, as he knew Severus would. Never mind _touching_, for it was punishment enough to see Draco doing it. But what if Hermione developed an attraction to Severus?

Severus had always been an ugly man, turning away most of the people he interacted with, but Hermione was a rarity. She would see how he shone like obsidian: gleaming darkly without the flashiness and sparkle of other gems. He knew she would respect Severus' brilliance, and he knew Severus would be hard-pressed to resist her, for she had so many qualities in common with someone Severus had once loved.

Already Tom was feeling possessive. Hermione was _his_ find, his secret, his rare gem. He was to teach her, he was to be her savior, and she was to be forever indebted to him, forever forced to admire him in every way. He did not want to see her have such thoughts about any other person.

He hammered harder on the keys as he drew in deep breaths. He pictured Hermione, with her dark eyes glimmering with brilliance, with her pink lips curving into a delighted and secret smile, and he imagined her through Severus' eyes. What man could resist such a tantalizingly unusual woman? She was not beautiful, she was not classically charming, but she was radiant and captivating. Tom himself had been immediately captivated by her from the very first moment she had fallen at his feet.

Roots of self-hatred began to take hold: was he truly jealous of Severus and Draco? This was unlike him and was a despicable development. Not only was he worthier than any other of admiration, but he did _not_ desire Hermione Granger's admiration and affection. He did not need it, and he certainly did not want it. He could not foul his plans for her with sickening notions of desire.

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><p>She had escaped Draco's advances tonight, surprisingly. Draco had grumpily gone back to his own rooms, barking at her to stay in hers, and after waiting for the clock to strike midnight, Hermione had ventured off to Voldemort's rooms. She had been unable to concentrate on her spellwork due to the memory of the look on Voldemort's face when he had caught them, and a thousand different possibilities flew about her mind for why he might have acted in such a way, each of them less likely than the one before.<p>

Even from down the hall she could hear him thundering on the keys. He seemed angry. As she approached his door, she could _feel _his magic sparking in the air around her. Eager to ameliorate his mood, Hermione silently created the blue flames, and had them creep through the space between the floor and the door. She waited for him to notice them and was beaming when he opened the door, holding up the blue flames with one hand.

"Do you like them?" she pressed him, trying to stifle her hopeful smile. Voldemort's lovely, pale lips twitched tellingly. "Watch this: _aguamenti_." With a rush of water, the blue flames disappeared from his palm.

"Very good," he said patronizingly. "Come in; there is much work to do."

She was a bit disappointed at his lack of reaction, but still she followed him inside.

"Why were you upset?" As she spoke, she sat down on the piano bench and plunked out the tune he had taught her which he had created as a child. There was something comforting about it, but he slapped at her hands to stop her, looking irritated.

"I was not upset. You must learn to read others better." He turned away, brandishing his yew wand thoughtfully. "Tonight I shall teach you charms for masking yourself."

They worked late into the night, until the pinks and purples of dawn were creeping up the horizon. Finally, Hermione had learned the Disillusionment charm, and was taking great pleasure in walking about the room, watching how she blended in with her surroundings magically. Without thinking on her actions, she impulsively dove onto his bed, which was covered with a brocade duvet. Her skin, hair, and clothing immediately took on the pattern of the brocade.

"Could have used this yesterday with the chocolate vendor," Hermione mused, rolling over on his bed. Voldemort was standing by the foot of the bed, looking down at her in amusement.

"_Finite Incantatem_," he said wearily with a wave of his hand. Hermione returned to her normal appearance and was a bit disappointed that it was time to end, though her eyes were burning from lack of sleep. "You are advancing quickly. Get some rest; tomorrow you will have a special task to complete to aid me." He was still looking down at her; Hermione forgot to move off the bed as she gazed up at him. Perhaps she was simply exhausted, but she found herself staring up at his lovely face, taking in the perfect angles, the way his dark waves fell across his forehead and contrasted perfectly with his skin. He looked better in clothing than most men due to his lean, tall physique. She found herself imagining how his svelte shoulders might feel under her hands, how his lips might feel against hers.

There was an odd tightening in her chest as she thought of these things and she wondered if her desire had shown on her face. She had not forgotten what had happened the other night with Draco while she had been thinking of the young composer, and now remnants and fragments of that same tingling feeling returned to her in a rush. But she couldn't ignore how Voldemort's eyes seemed to darken, how he subtly bit his lip for a moment as if stifling an action, how he seemed to draw in a sharp breath.

She rose up from the bed hastily.

"I suppose I'll go now," she said, straightening her dress. "I will see you tomorrow."

Voldemort said nothing as she left and shut the door quietly behind herself.


	8. Act Eight: Aria

Lacrimosa

Author's Note: Thanks for all of the reviews, PMs, emails, tweets, and LJ comments! Y'all are such sweethearts :)

Disclaimer: the HP universe does not belong to me; I am just borrowing

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><p><strong>Act Eight: Aria<strong>

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><p>The Hogsmeade prison, known as Azkaban, was a sight that the old, grey man thought he would never see again.<p>

Based on appearance alone, one might assume him to be ancient; from his long white beard to his skin carved with wrinkles. Only his eyes bespoke of how very sharp and youthful he truly was. The old man swept up to the bars of one of the cells and he wrapped a gnarled hand around the icy bars. There were certainly other ways of imprisoning a man — he happened to know this all too well — but the bars were a physical reminder of confinement.

In spite of the grim setting, he smiled as two perfectly almond-shaped emerald eyes blinked back at him in the meager, pale light that managed to make its way into the cell. It cast the packed-earth floor of the cell and its trembling inhabitant in a vague, dim relief.

"Dumbledore," greeted the prisoner, his teeth chattering. For a man who was both starving and freezing to death, he was managing to be relatively casual and cheerful in his greeting.

"Harry. It has been a long time."

Harry feebly edged towards the front of the cell. Up close, Dumbledore was horrified by the state of him: even without being a Mudblood slave, Harry would have always been a slim man. But now he was wasting away, and the hollows in his cheeks and under his eyes were truly disturbing. His magic was weakening too; Dumbledore had always been able to feel the boy's magic sparking in the air around him, but now it was so faint it was nearly imperceptible.

"I'm afraid I don't have much in the way of tea, or I'd invite you in," Harry said wryly.

"I'm actually quite shocked you've not decided to move yet," confessed Dumbledore with a small smile that Harry shared. Even on the verge of death, his eyes sparked with vitality and energy, giving Dumbledore hope. Even in the face of the Azkaban guards, Harry's spirit would not die. "I never thought you would enjoy such dreary decor."

"Been shopping around, you know. Biding my time."

Drawn to the liveliness, a Dementor rounded the corner and the little light that had illuminated the prison was snatched from it; a weight on his soul that Dumbledore recognized all too well descended upon him. Luckily, all it took was one glance at those jewel-like eyes.

"_Expecto Patronum_," Dumbledore murmured. A glorious phoenix Patronus erupted from his wand and sailed towards the Dementor, banishing it with a flourish.

"Excellent," Harry complimented, grinning. "So what are you doing here, anyway?"

Dumbledore chuckled.

"Well, I realized it was an opportune time to assist you in moving to a more preferable location."

* * *

><p>Draco had been feeling grumpy lately. Looking in his mirror over his washbasin, he recently could no longer find much to admire about himself. He had lost his trademark sharp features — perhaps too much pudding — and there was something lacking in his posture. When he tried to cheer himself up by discussing his many fine qualities with himself, he realized he was at a loss.<p>

He had little to be proud of anymore.

He had lost the apprenticeship to Uncle Severus, which was at best a humiliation and at worst would ruin him. He had declined the betrothal to Pansy Parkinson, a decision he would stand by but nevertheless had been less than admirable. The guidance of Voldemort was more a hindrance than anything else, and while he normally might have been manipulating the composer to get what he could out of him, he had not yet made use of this new resource. To top it all off, his only bed companion was a Mudblood.

Disgusted with himself, Draco paced about his chambers, reflecting on how he never seemed to fail to disappoint his godfather. When he recalled the pearlescent potion he had spotted the day before, he realized that this was currently his only route — he _had_ to impress Severus, or risk becoming a nobody. And Malfoys were _never_ nobodies — he'd be a disgrace to his family name.

Resolve hardened, he stormed to the library. It was a room he rarely used, and he had often wondered why his family bothered having such an expansive library at all. Neither of his parents worked for their money. Really, all they did was purchase fine clothes and sip wine and socialize. But today, he was glad for it.

Draco pushed open the doors to the silent, tomb-like room. Wintry sunlight illuminated the particles of dust that had been disturbed, and the whole place smelled of old parchment. He wrinkled his nose in distaste but shut the doors behind him before casting a confused glance around the room. Where to even begin?

He spent many frustrated hours poring over potions texts, but he found no sign of this strange potion. There were a number of potions with pearly appearances, but he found none that were supposed to smell of flowery French perfume. Irritated, he left, and stormed off to the Mudblood's room in hopes of ridding his frustration.

He passed by Voldemort's room, his lips curving into a small, secret smirk.

Perhaps there was one thing he had left to be proud of; one thing left that he possessed over another man.

The lilting, fragmented bits of music emanating from the composer's room signified that Voldemort was in the middle of working hard, which in Draco's mind was absolutely the ideal time to interrupt.

"Go away, young Master Draco," greeted Voldemort crossly after Draco had slipped inside. He did not look up from his work; one hand plucked a melody whilst the other one used a quill to scratch something out on parchment.

"I'm going to my Mudblood," Draco said lightly as he made his way to the piano. He picked up a sheaf of parchment, studying the neat notes.

"Then go to your Mudblood; it is not necessary for you to tell me." There was a definite edge to Voldemort's voice.

Draco's grin broadened. Suspicions were confirmed when he saw how a muscle in Voldemort's jaw leapt. He knew that this man was not the type to put others before himself, but while staying in the Malfoy home, he had little choice but to forgo his own interest in Draco's concubine.

It had all started that night at the Parkinsons' manor. Draco had not missed the look on the composer's face when the Mudblood had fallen before him, and how he had all but begged for Iris to bring in the Mudblood to their little gathering. Amused by this development — after all, the rising star of the court of Hogsmeade wanting a particular Mudblood was hilarious — Draco had kept watch for other reactions. Since the purchase, Voldemort had given himself away several times: he'd interrupted Draco during his time with his concubine on at least two occasions, and after Draco had slapped the girl at the ball, Voldemort had had his ears burning with the sharpest lecture he had ever received.

So now it was much like cat and mouse: Draco's current favorite pastime was to subtly taunt Voldemort. _See what I've got? See how you'll never have it?_

"She's good in bed," Draco sighed idly, feigning disinterest by examining his fingernails. Voldemort set down his quill with a sigh of great irritation.

"Get out of my rooms, young Master Draco, or I will personally set fire to that damned wig," he said silkily with a deceiving sweet smile. Draco snorted as he stared back at Voldemort. How was it that this inferior man — for Draco himself remained unconvinced of Voldemort's lineage; there was no evidence for it — had earned the respect of Uncle Severus with such ease? What was his secret? In a way, Draco respected him for that: Voldemort commanded attention wherever he went, no matter what he did. For him, simply walking into a room was more of an entrance than if Draco had entered on a chariot with a full orchestra signifying his arrival.

And then it clicked for Draco: Voldemort could help him — or rather, Voldemort was _obligated_ to help him. Draco was no fool and knew that what had happened yesterday had had nothing to do with him; Voldemort had been serving himself in that instance.

And he knew precisely the right bargaining chip.

"You can't; you're obligated to like me," taunted Draco as he set down the parchment. "It is your duty to help me make something of myself, after all..."

"Surely if you grow to be a failure, Lucius and Narcissa will see how little I was given with which to work," parried Voldemort dryly. He returned to his composing. Draco sighed loudly, looking contemplative.

"Perhaps all you need is the right motivation..." He paused for the best effect. "There is nothing like sex to motivate a man. I wonder..."

He had Voldemort's attention now. Draco attempted to mask his smirk. "I know what you want, and you know what I want. You can have the Mudblood as much as you help me win Uncle's favor."

"Disgusting, childish, faulty. I should have known only you would conceive of such a plan," scoffed Voldemort, though his straightened posture and slightly narrowed eyes gave away his interest.

"And only you would agree to it. Get Uncle Severus to take me on as an apprentice and I'll let you have a go at her. Make me a success..." Draco paused before lowering his voice and leaning in closer, "...and she's all yours."

He saw Voldemort's adam's apple move as he swallowed, though he had carefully arranged his features into an expression of impassivity. Quite suddenly, he smirked at Draco, which was alarming.

"You truly believe your used Mudblood is a worthy conquest to me?" he asked in disbelief. Draco returned the smirk now.

"I do," he said simply. He straightened and turned away. "Well, think on it. When you've decided to go along with it, you know where to find me."

Draco did not wait for the composer's response; he shut the door softly before sauntering down the hall, standing taller than he had in weeks.

* * *

><p>"An important man is coming tonight; I want you to meet him." Voldemort's speech was abrupt and terse, setting Hermione on edge. She sat on the piano bench in his room, watching him prepare for the evening rather angrily. She watched him nearly rip off one shirt and yank on another; for a moment she had a view of his lean, sinewed torso and arms, but luckily she realized she was staring before he caught her. He buttoned up a waistcoat so dark green it was nearly black and missed the buttons several times due to his apparent anger. Losing her patience, Hermione finally spoke.<p>

"What in Merlin's name is wrong, Voldemort?" she demanded exasperatedly.

"Nothing is wrong except your incessant questioning," he snapped back at her. Hermione glowered and rose to her feet.

"I've asked one question thus far; that can hardly be called _incessant_. You never let me ask any questions."

Tom turned away from her tempting mouth. Really, this was all getting just a little bit out of hand. His attraction to Hermione was quickly turning into something a bit disturbing, and it had to end _here_, and it had to end _now_.

"You will do as we decided with the Unbreakable Vow," he reminded her. He could picture her look of indignation, but as he was turned away from her, he did not see it. Feeling a bit more relaxed now that she was out of his line of sight (though the tantalizing scent of her skin was making his mouth dry), Tom buttoned up the sleeves of his waistcoat and adjusted his shirt underneath before turning to face Hermione again. She was looking absolutely livid.

"Fine," she said hotly before storming over to the door. "I suppose I won't bother asking who this man is or how I shall act around him?"

"You would be correct," he replied silkily. For one electrifying moment, their eyes met as they regarded each other in pure annoyance. There was something in Hermione's dark amber depths that read as something other than annoyance, and he wondered if perhaps his attraction were mirrored in those eyes. But it was unwise to dwell on such things, and when Hermione wordlessly slammed the door shut, the spell was thankfully broken.

He wondered if she'd ever find out that he had helped to choose her dress for this evening. It was modest, but one important thing was put on display: her branding.

* * *

><p>Madame Umbridge had chosen Hermione's outfit tonight and Hermione descended the front staircase, displeased by the dress. It covered up much of her skin, which was a nice change, but it didn't hide the scar bearing her birth title, and she did not like to have her scar on display. She tugged on the lace trimming the sleeve, hoping it might help, but when she reached the bottom of the staircase, the front door burst open, letting in a violent gust of snow and sleet.<p>

"Welcome, Lord Snape," gushed Umbridge. The squat woman bustled over to the dark, ominous figure standing in the doorway and let him in, hastily shutting the door behind him. The wind was now locked out again, and snowflakes settled around the man.

He was as tall as Voldemort, if not taller, but he hunched quite a bit. His black cloak was heavy and dragged on the floor slightly, giving him a macabre and haunting silhouette. "Let me take your cloak—"

"That will be quite unnecessary," the man drawled, pushing away his hood. His voice was like cold silk, and yet it was not a pleasant sound. "I will leave it on a chair. I dislike letting my belongings stray from my sight," he added flatly. He had sallow skin and a drawn face, with black eyes and a hooked nose.

"Uncle Severus," Draco called from the top of the staircase. Immediately dislike dawned on the man's face. "So good of you to come."

Hermione did a double-take; it was shocking to see Draco looking so pleasant and polite. He glided down the stairs with his palms up in a gesture of welcome. Severus Snape seemed even less tricked by the act than Hermione, and he regarded the blonde young man with ill-concealed disdain. "This is my Mudblood concubine that we were telling you about yesterday. Her name is Hermione." Draco took Hermione by the crook of her elbow, as though Snape needed any help in deciphering who he met. His beetle-black eyes flicked to Hermione.

"Charming," he said flatly before turning, his cloak swirling gracefully around him. "Where are Lucius and Narcissa?"

"Coming!" trilled Narcissa from the top of the stairs, her enormous skirts sweeping the floor as she hastened to Snape. "Oh, Severus, it truly has been too long," she sighed, allowing him to kiss her hand. Lucius joined them soon, and Hermione was hardly surprised that Voldemort was the last to saunter down the stairs. Sparks of familiarity between the two men caught Hermione's attention: why was this Severus Snape so important?

"I would like Lady Granger to dine with us tonight," Voldemort said imperiously. When Madame Umbridge sputtered about the impropriety of a Mudblood at a Pureblood dinner table, Snape interrupted her sharply.

"Draco has told me she is an entertaining conversationalist. Let her join," he said. Hermione watched Voldemort's face carefully; his expression remained impassive and yet there was a gleam of triumph in his eyes. _Why would it be prudent for me to meet this man?_ Hermione wondered desperately.

Over dinner, Hermione kept quiet, though her eyes often met Voldemort's. She had been seated on a corner, with Snape at the end of the table and Voldemort directly across from her.

"I rarely escape my piano these days; any goings-on in Hogsmeade?" Voldemort asked politely as they ate. Hermione's stomach gave an unhappy lurch as a dish of quail in pastry was set before her and she pushed at it with her fork distastefully. She knew it was unwise to try and stomach the food of the Purebloods; she could steal more manageable food from the kitchens later.

"A breakout from Azkaban. Naturally, His Majesty is disturbed," said Snape detachedly as he examined a bit of quail on his fork, brow furrowed in dislike. Hermione gasped. She had heard of Azkaban, and knew all too well the tales of how impossible it was to break out. Snape's eyes flicked to her again, glimmering with curiosity.

"A-azkaban? Incredible. Whoever broke out would have to be quite powerful. Who was it?"

She blushed when she remembered she had spoken out of turn, but luckily no one reprimanded her for it. Snape arched a brow.

"A Mudblood slave, apparently. Put there for performing Dark magic to escape his confines."

Voldemort looked sharply at Snape but kept his mouth shut wisely, feigning boredom with haste.

"Uncle Severus, I found out which potion you were brewing," interrupted Draco eagerly. Snape looked highly unimpressed. "Amortentia, was it?"

"I do hope you do not expect me to rescind my decision based on your ability to read."

Draco flushed angrily; Voldemort hid a smirk by taking a bite of his food. Hermione met his eyes and for a moment, forgot her annoyance with him as they shared amusement at Draco's expense. It was hard to tear her eyes from Voldemort's smooth pale lips, and when she finally did manage to meet his eyes again, there was such surprising intensity to his gaze that it took her breath away. Just as quick as it had come it was gone.

"How would one go about breaking out of Azkaban?" Hermione wondered aloud with a frown after she had recovered from the moment with Voldemort. A slight smirk curled Snape's thin lips.

"Hardly an appropriate question for a Mudblood to pursue," he chided softly. "But fair nonetheless. The guards are Dementors, but as there are so many of them, it would take a powerful Patronus charm. It would also require wandless magic."

_Note to self: demand Voldemort to teach me how to perform the Patronus charm...whatever that is_.

The evening passed surprisingly quickly; Hermione could not gage whether she had performed according to Voldemort's wishes, but she reminded herself that he had not given her guidelines. She was dismissed to her chambers as they enjoyed dessert, but instead of going straight there, she hid herself in the shadows and hastily performed a Disillusionment Charm before sneaking into the kitchens for some digestible food. There was a moment of guilt for stealing before she consoled herself with the reminder that they would have had to give it to her anyway, and as she hastened back to her room Hermione reflected on how Voldemort was quickly corrupting her.

* * *

><p>"Well?" The icy wind whipped around them as the two men stood in the snowy night before Snape's carriage. Tom heard a snigger.<p>

"I find it endlessly amusing that everyone around me is trying to manipulate me into doing something for them," Snape remarked, his tone icier than the air. Tom narrowed his eyes.

"No one is manipulating you, Severus. I merely thought you might find the Mudblood—"

"**_Do not_** say that word," Severus interrupted in a dangerous hiss. Tom rolled his eyes impatiently; he was the one who had reason to be offended by the term, not Severus. "She is nothing like Lily, at any rate." Severus made to step into his carriage; he looked over his shoulder back at Tom.

"Oh? She's feisty...and her magic is something to behold."

"I am aware. But she must have a devious, vicious streak — otherwise you would have never given her a second glance."

"You romanticize the dead and it sickens me. Besides...who else is manipulating you? Surely you do not mean Grindelwald; being given gold for your work is not manipulation, it is a salary."

"You think me some sort of imbecile?" Severus snapped. "I have several others attempting to make use of my...influence. Yet none of them have offered me anything remotely satisfactory in return."

"They must have; why else would you be brewing Amortentia?" Tom parried, quirking an eyebrow. Snape looked uncomfortable.

"That...is something else," he finally replied. "Enough of this — you have wasted enough of my time tonight." Severus was about to shut his door when Tom realized it was time to make use of his wild card. It was the absolute last resort, but this was turning into a drastic situation.

"She can wandlessly and nonverbally cast a Disillusionment Charm," he called into the night, his voice nearly carried away by the wind. Severus froze and Tom masked his smirk of victory. He had Severus now. "With no training, she was able to sit in the Opera house and nearly kill Bellatrix by simply moving a block of wood," he added in a lower voice.

"...How interesting," Severus said contemplatively as he studied Tom intensely.

"Ollivander wishes to make her a wand."

The two men regarded each other. Severus turned away.

"I will owl you when it suits me," he called over his shoulder, and Tom allowed himself a grin of triumph as the black carriage swept into the darkness.

* * *

><p>The moment she heard Voldemort's footsteps, Hermione vaulted herself from her room and down the corridor to his, her nightgown floating around her legs. Without contemplating how rude she was being, she exploded into Voldemort's chambers.<p>

"Patronus Charm," she demanded breathlessly as she shut the door behind her. Voldemort's lips twitched as he regarded her.

"Fair enough. You have done well this evening," he replied as he unbuttoned his waistcoat. Hermione flushed with the combined pleasure of his compliment and of seeing him undress.

"What do you need from Lord Snape?" she took another stab at questioning as she perched on the piano bench, watching Voldemort hang his waistcoat on a hook in the wardrobe.

"Many things; it would take too long to explain. Enough of that. Let us begin." He cast the usual wards around the room furtively before pausing. Hermione could learn the Patronus charm in theory...or she could practise it. To practise it during daylight was impractical, but at night...

_I'd only need to place a few charms on our rooms so that Draco and the others would be lured away from them until we returned..._

"Dress yourself; we will need to pay a visit to Azkaban," he ordered. Hermione squealed with glee before sprinting back to her rooms. There was something satisfying about seeing her so pleased.

In no time at all, they were rushing through the silent night to Azkaban, their cloaks flying behind them as they ran. Azkaban was at the outskirts of Hogsmeade — a dangerous place to be, but worthwhile for practicing. Besides, Voldemort had spent his life perfecting his Imperius and Confundus curses; if they ran into trouble it would be easy to escape.

The foreboding outline of the prison rose up before them. The stars disappearing from the sky as they approached, and Hermione was filled with a remarkable gloom. The night air had been icy, but now it felt deadly cold; as though shards of ice were ripping through her to her very soul.

"We are getting close to the Dementors. Disillusionment charm."

Hermione did as told and waited for his next order, though suddenly there was a heavy weight on her heart, as though all the happiness had left her. "This is a spell to banish Dementors," Voldemort began, though as he too had cast a Disillusionment charm, she could not see him, and it was unnerving.

"Dementors feed off of human energy, right?"

"...Yes, and no. Yes, in that they are attracted to the human soul and feed on it. But the key to fending these creatures off is a rather stupid theory — happiness. You cannot perform the Patronus charm unless you have equipped yourself with your most pleasing memory. Sadly, this charm is rather useful..." he paused, "especially for a Mudblood."

"I see." Hermione was beginning to understand; the energy was leaving her, a sadness so empty and gnawing replacing it that she could have lain down in the snow and died in this very spot. As they looked up at the ominous stone structure, she noticed cloaked, floating beings moving about, in and out through cracks in the stone. "So I must think of my happiest memory?"

"Precisely. Once you are ready, the spell is _Expecto Patronum_."

Hermione shut her eyes as she tried to recall her happiest memory. At first, she thought of her happier times with Ron, but as that venture had culminated in humiliation and pain, those were ill-suited.

The wind carried Voldemort's scent to her, reminding her instantly of the very first time he had tried to teach her to play the piano. The laughter and companionship, as well as the compelling mystery, returned to her in a flood. She tried to grasp the feeling and opened her eyes.

"I am ready," she said before drawing in a deep breath. Wordlessly they crunched through the snow towards the prison, and Hermione shivered as one of the cloaked figures approached them. She knew the Dementor's Kiss was a fate worse than death, but she reminded herself that even if she failed to produce a Patronus, Voldemort was here.

Just knowing that, and recalling the memory of sitting beside him on that little bench, Hermione gathered her courage and continued to approach the Dementor. Images flashed through her mind's eye — Voldemort's hands over hers, dancing intimately over the white keys of the piano; Voldemort's dark eyes glimmering with indulgent amusement; Voldemort gazing down at her as she lay on his bed...

"_Expecto Patronum,_" she called out, raising her hand. Silvery wisps floated out of her hand. "Have I done it?" she asked excitedly.

"It will take the shape of an animal. Try again."

But the doom was closing in on her; she remembered Draco raping her that first time. She remembered Ron's disgust for her at the ball. She remembered being flayed within an inch of her life so many times, gnawing, painful hunger that kept her awake every night, the horror of seeing her fellow slaves die of starvation, infection, disease, in birthing, too harsh beatings, and other horrific fates. "Do not disappoint me; we have come all this way," Voldemort's voice drew her from her thoughts. His words stung, but she was healed by the feeling of his hand on the small of her back. She blinked back tears and focused on the feeling of his hand. _He is going to free me._

"_Expecto Patronum!"_

This time, she did it.

* * *

><p>"Amazing! I can't believe it. Thank you so much; that was <em>wonderful<em>, oh, I just —" Hermione prattled on as they returned to Malfoy Manor, nearly frozen to death but satisfied. Tom was keeping his shock at her power to himself; it was better to let her assume that that rapid of a progression was entirely normal...

They alighted the stairs, still hidden by the Disillusionment charms. It would have been prudent for Hermione to return to her rooms immediately, but both were so caught up in the pleasure of her success that they simply went to his chamber. He could not help but relish the euphoric glow on her face, and he watched in amusement as she sat on the edge of his bed, still chattering on, reliving the experience in nauseating detail.

Tom gazed at her, watching her talk, feeling their powerful magic intermingle in the air around them. Was it possible that this girl truly had no perception of how powerful she truly was? Her skill was astounding, and yet she was acting like her abilities were normal — no, _expected_ of her.

Originally he had thought he might simply make use of her until he had reached a point where he could carry on his own plans on his own, but now he was questioning that. Undoubtedly she would be more than useful to the very end; she was exquisitely capable. Anyone who could recognize true power for what it was could see _that_. And she was determined — as determined as he was.

That, and... his eyes lingered on her brown eyes as she paused, looking back at him with her eyes narrowing shrewdly.

"You've not been listening to a word I've said, have you?" she asked. Tom smirked back at her in response before shedding his cloak and waistcoat and seating himself at his piano.

"I promise I've been fully attentive," he said innocently as he began to play. He heard her footsteps as she approached his back, and he stiffened slightly when he felt her tug on a lock of his hair playfully. She pulled back and sat down next to him, idly thumping on the keys and ruining his own delicate melody.

"What's your Patronus?"

"Stop that," he snapped, slapping her hand away, "And, it's a Basilisk."

Hermione exhaled and he glanced at her. She felt quite close now. "What?"

"I wouldn't mind having a more powerful creature like that," she admitted irritably, scowling down at her hands which were chapped from the cold. "An otter is hardly threatening."

"Not everyone can be intimidating and awe-inspiring like me."

She grinned at him and his gaze was magnetically drawn to her lips. "Still, you've done quite well. I am pleased with your progress," he said carefully, trying to not give away too much. Hermione's cheeks turned a bit pink, which pleased him. Suddenly, a look of unease passed over her features. When she spoke next, she sounded cautious and halting, as though afraid of voicing this particular thought.

"You know what I was thinking of when I cast the Patronus charm successfully?" she whispered. Tom paused his playing to turn towards her a bit more. He was, in fact, curious of this. Perhaps there was a secret part of him that was hoping that he had had something to do with her success... "...I was thinking of how much you have done for me," she finally said, her voice barely audible. She was looking away from him now, and her smooth neck and collarbone were temptingly on display for him, a few wild caramel locks resting against her clavicle. He could see her pulse moving in her neck. "You've given me so much hope, and...I cannot thank you enough."

Finally she looked back at him; he could see her swallowing. Warning bells were resounding in his head now but he happily ignored them.

"We have an agreement; I've done for you as much as you have done for me," he replied simply. Hermione searched his face for an emotion, and she felt silly when he hardly reacted to her confession. Still, in his gaze was the intensity that was missing from his expression, and it sent a thrill of goosebumps over her flesh.

"It still made me happier than anything else ever has in my life," she confessed quietly. She saw his stormy eyes flicker to her lips, and somehow she found herself leaning in, her eyelids lowering, her heart beating violently against her ribcage.

His eyelashes brushed hers as their noses bumped slightly. His lips were smooth and she knew hers were chapped; the kiss was so soft and subtle that it was hardly a kiss at all, and much more of a whisper of skin against skin. Still it ignited something deep within her, and she was filled with a heady, rushing, warm sensation that was unlike anything she had ever felt before.

"We must not do this," he said against her lips. Trembling, Hermione drew back. Had she imagined...? But no, he looked as unsettled as she felt, though he was much more adept at hiding his feelings and quickly masked how the kiss had shaken him as well.

"I know," she said in a small voice, looking away. The silence was ringing in their ears, drowning out all else. She wanted more; she wanted to press her lips against his and to run her fingers through his hair and make him sigh in pleasure...

Instead of fleeing, however, like she always did, Hermione stayed by his side and listened as he conjured melodies as tumultuous as his dark eyes. They did not speak, they did not touch. The melancholy of a desire that could never be fully realized was heavier on her soul than all the sadness in the world.


	9. Act Nine: Burletta

Lacrimosa

Author's Notes: Thanks for all the support, kiddies! So close to finishing this story! :o One more chapter, I think! Sort of off-target from the originally estimated seven chapters, but at least ten chapters is a rather manageable amount (...unlike my other Tomione, Bad Romance, which is a monstrously huge fic).

**Note: the smut originally posted in this chapter has been moved to my blog. **

Disclaimer: the HP universe does not belong to me; I am just borrowing.

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><p><strong>Act Nine: Burletta<strong>

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><p>Grindelwald's court had gathered in anticipation of hearing Voldemort's latest work that had been commissioned by the king. Even the king's most trusted alchemist — a famed hermit of sorts — was in attendance. Carriages each more magnificent than the last converged on Hogwarts as all of the most beloved and wealthy courtiers prepared for a day of intrigue. The apparent lack of reverence which Voldemort held for the king was one of the greatest current sources of gossip among the elite of Hogsmeade, and today that would be on display, open to all sorts of conjecture.<p>

Draco arrived with his parents and aunt Bellatrix. A servant led away their horses and carriage as the quartet approached the gates of the palace.

"Tread carefully, little Draco, and you might just make a name for yourself," whispered aunt Bellatrix temptingly in his ear, her talon-like fingers closing over his shoulder in a gesture that ought to have been loving. Draco let his smirk curve his lips as they were allowed entry.

"Naturally, Aunt Bella," he said smoothly before following his father inside.

Inside the castle, they were led through a series of corridors until they came to the Great Hall. It was an enormous stone room whose ceiling had once been bewitched by King Grindelwald's rumored favorite, Albus Dumbledore. The man had been the composer for the court as well as the chief alchemist and the adviser whom Grindelwald favored the most. The ceiling had been charmed to match whatever weather was produced by the heavens on that given day, giving the feeling of being outside.

But that had been years ago, before Grindelwald and Dumbledore had had a falling out, the source of which was still a mystery to even the most privileged courtiers. Recently Dumbledore had been banished from Hogsmeade, making room for Voldemort as the new resident entertainer of Hogsmeade. Grindelwald may have behaved in a way that suggested he preferred Voldemort's compositions (and indeed perhaps he did) but to Draco, the evidence that Grindelwald had not let go of his favorite courtier was literally written on the walls: Grindelwald had attempted to destroy the powerful charm that matched the ceiling to the heavens. He'd done quite a good job of it, but patches of the charm still remained.

Now the hall was lit with hundreds of floating candles, giving the room a warmth that Draco knew they would never receive from their king. At the throne at the end of the hall, Grindelwald was slouched, looking in spite of his ancient face like a bored child waiting for the next amusement. To his right stood uncle Severus, naturally, looking as bat-like as ever.

The Malfoys approached the throne to kneel before Grindelwald and pay their dues. Grindelwald was hardly distracted from looking around the room. It irritated Draco — the Malfoy name had held power in Hogsmeade for centuries now. In his opinion, it was Grindelwald who ought to have been paying respect.

"Good day, Severus. What is the news about Hogsmeade?" asked Narcissa politely as they rose from their kowtowing to give way for the next family of guests. Severus flicked his beetle eyes to Narcissa briefly.

"Peaceful and thriving as ever," said Severus flatly, clasping his hands behind his back. Behind them a loud snort startled them. When Draco looked back, he realized Grindelwald had been the culprit.

"You lie to me, Severus," he said reproachfully, "just as you lie to them." The king shifted into a straighter posture and looked down at the Malfoys with a strange combination of disgust, amusement, and irritability evident in his normally merry eyes. "The Mudbloods are revolting."

"Surely you cannot mean that one prisoner—" began Lucius hopefully, but Grindelwald cut him off with another snort.

"Hardly. That was just the beginning. There is talk of an uprising." Now his eyes had warmed again, and Draco wondered why this news seemed to bring the king little genuine distress. It was more like he was vaguely irritated by it. There was a twinkle lighting up his eyes, and Draco's stomach gave an odd lurch. There was something about this situation that he did not like...

"I've heard the Mudblood whores are resisting the baby-burnings," said Bellatrix knowledgeably with a sigh as she fluttered her elaborately painted paper fan over her breast. "Idiots. Do they truly think we want their filthy sprog mucking up our streets?" She gave a wicked smirk and Draco looked away. His aunt had participated in her fair share of baby burnings — a practice which took care of the little problem of unwanted half-blood offspring. No one could love the product of a regal Pureblood and his Mudblood whore, and the babies were burned as a way of teaching a lesson to the Mudblood mothers. It had long since been deemed that the Killing Curse was not enough of a deterrent.

"Enough of this gossip — Lord Voldemort has arrived," interrupted Severus shortly. Draco noted a rare flush over his uncle's sallow skin; it was enough to pique his curiosity, but sadly he could not engage in any sort of interview on the matter now.

The packed court bowed and curtseyed as Voldemort entered the Great Hall, the doors swinging open magically before him, flanked by his favored virtuoso musicians. The courtiers glittered and sparkled and shimmered in their fashionable Parisian ensembles, but Voldemort stood out like a mark of darkness, like a smudge in virgin snow, in his plain dark waistcoat and dark, wig-less hair.

"Your Majesty, it is an honor to play for you today," greeted Voldemort, giving a stiff little bow that was not half-sufficient as proof of his respect. Grindelwald made no comment on the bow, however, and simply gestured for the musicians to begin setting up their instruments.

"And what piece do you have to entertain me with today, Voldemort?" asked Grindelwald cheekily. Voldemort met the king's gaze directly — an act punishable by death — before offering a small smile. He was so practiced in seducing others with his eyes, dark as a crow's feather, and sly smile that it must have taken little to no effort to give such a smirk to the king. Draco despised and envied him at once; until he remembered his Mudblood, lying in her chambers, his release in her body...the very Mudblood that the composer so obviously lusted after...

Draco smirked again, catching Voldemort's eye for a moment. He wished he had some way of reminding the young composer of what he possessed that the man wanted, but there was no subtle way available at the moment. Still, their relationship was strained now, and just the eye contact was enough to make Voldemort turn away quickly. One of his musicians handed him a thick roll of parchment, bearing an emerald green seal.

"A portion from a larger body of work that needs to be performed at the Opera House. All dedicated to your Highness, of course," Voldemort said graciously. The musicians were prepared, and thus Voldemort began conducting them.

The Great Hall was filled with a melancholy as the first few notes of the violin wound their way up to the shreds of bewitchment on the ceiling. Draco frowned. Was this a requiem or something? It was certainly dark enough. It sounded more like a death mass than a dedication.

Quickly Draco tired of the music and his eyes wandered about the Great Hall, and quite suddenly something caught his eye: the hem of a black cape flicking out of one of the narrow archways leading to a slim corridor. _Why is Uncle Severus leaving_...?

No one would notice him slip out. Draco wove through the throngs of courtiers and slipped into the same corridor. He was now buried in pitch-black darkness here, but he dared not light his wand. Draco listened intently for his uncle's footsteps and caught them faintly drifting away...

As silently as possible, Draco padded after his uncle, not sure of why he was bothering to follow the man. Probably boredom, as well as the perpetual suspicion he'd always had of his uncle. When he reached the end of the corridor, the thing he saw was enough to make him draw in a sharp gasp, his pale grey eyes widening in shock.

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><p>Hermione was beginning to worry that she might've caught the Plague somehow, as she lurched to the shallow bowl in the corner of her room that stood on a little stand. Clammy fingers wrapped around the edge as she hunched over the bowl and vomited. She straightened again, shaking, a sheen of sweat on her forehead. She considered lying down on her bed, but she'd done that all morning and clearly it was not giving her any relief from her nausea.<p>

Instead she wandered to the windows and pressed her forehead to the icy glass, letting out a sigh which fogged the glass. The cold surface was soothing against her skin and she shut her eyes for a moment until a familiar voice outside jarred her, as well as the cawing of a murder of crows being disturbed.

Down in the busy street, several familiar heads of flaming red hair caught her attention. The Weasley family was walking, save for their youngest. Ginny was looking resplendent, seated atop their brown horse Errol, her long red hair streaming down to her hips and gleaming nearly gold in the light. She laughed at something one of the twins said, throwing her hair back in laughter, and that was when Hermione realized something shocking.

Ginny was pregnant.

Her round belly was straining against even her cloak. Hermione pressed her hands to the window, eyes wide as she stared down at the Weasleys. It didn't even matter that Ron was there with Lavender; Hermione could only focus on Ginny's pregnancy. She looked to be pretty far along — why had she not heard? She must have gotten married recently, though Hermione was sure that she would have heard in some way about it...

The Weasleys disappeared round the bend in the road and Hermione sighed in frustration, banging her hand against the glass. There were several reasons as to why she found Ginny's pregnancy so disturbing: their slave and her best friend, Harry, had long been in love with Ginny, and it was no secret that she had returned his affections passionately. Hermione had been positive that Harry would have let her know of this development, and the fact that he hadn't made her feel estranged — not only from him but from the world at large. At least as a regular slave, she had been able to communicate with others. But even as she fought for her freedom here, she became in reality more and more confined. Her loneliness that she'd been able to ignore now felt stacked up all around her.

_What if he didn't want to tell me?_ What if Harry no longer considered her a close friend because of how she had acted towards Ron? It seemed highly un-Harry, and yet Hermione's insecurities were crowing louder than her logic at this moment.

Suddenly she felt desperate to escape Malfoy Manor. She knew it was foolish to try now, especially as she was clearly ill, but her panic was rising until she found herself crouched on the floor, dry-heaving. She was separated from Harry, she was separated from the Weasleys, and she was at the mercy of two of the most volatile men in the world. Hermione tried to cling to the memory of the Patronus, but all she could recall from the prior night at this moment was the almost-kiss between her and Voldemort — another source of frustration in her life; one that left her feeling empty.

It also made her question if she would ever find love. Most women in her world were married before they were sixteen; she was twenty-two and still nothing more than a concubine. And it was well-known that men tired of their toys quickly — within a few years, Malfoy would grow bored of her and he'd cast her aside, and then what? She had been rejected by both of the men that she had developed feelings for...

...but had Voldemort's actions last night truly signified a rejection? Or was he simply holding back for the sake of prudence?

She wanted to see him again; she wanted to test whether her feelings were due to the whirlwind of emotions caused by the prospect of her freedom, or if she had genuinely developed feelings for Voldemort.

The slam of a door suggested the return of the Malfoys; Hermione rose to her feet, Vanished the signs of her nausea, and washed her face quickly with some water. She heard Draco's laugh paired with his footsteps. It was not a laugh so much as a snigger, but it was the loudest laugh she'd ever heard from him. Just as the door was opening, she arranged herself on the bed. The door opened, revealing Draco with Voldemort standing behind him, looking irritated.

"Come, Mudblood — I want you to hear this piece Voldemort performed for his Majesty today," Draco managed to say in between derisive sniggers. Voldemort's irritation was showing on his face quite clearly, and Hermione raised her eyebrows at him questioningly. Despite their casual interaction, her heart beat faster at the sight of him. His dark eyes flicked to her lips briefly, and she felt a blush spread over her cheeks and collarbone at his intense gaze.

"I cannot singlehandedly perform an orchestral piece, young Master Draco," Voldemort patronized slowly, as if speaking to a slug. Draco looked too cheered to even be bothered by how Voldemort had so clearly slighted him.

"You can play the tune though, can't you?" Draco goaded as he slung an arm around Hermione's waist, guiding her to follow him to Voldemort's chamber. Voldemort looked like he would have much preferred to Hex Draco and leave him lying on the ground, but grudgingly he turned and led them to his room. "It was a fine piece; the courtiers were blown away," Draco was saying. Hermione balked; it was rare to see Draco in such a cheerful mood. In fact...she'd never seen him even half this happy at all. "And of course, his Majesty Grindelwald was obviously pleased. You've done well, Voldemort — not many could have taken Dumbledore's place."

"You are too kind, Master Draco," Voldemort said flatly as he sat at his piano. Draco did not release Hermione, and instead of sitting down, he held her against his side as they stood next to the piano, watching Voldemort play. Hermione recognized the rather chilling melody as the one he'd been struggling with for weeks. She stiffened when she felt Draco press his lips to her temple in an absent kiss, as a lover might do. Voldemort apparently heard the kiss because he looked up sharply.

"Isn't he talented, Mudblood?" Draco asked sweetly. Voldemort's hands were hammering much harder on the keys now. Draco ran his hand up and down her side delicately and embarrassment surged through Hermione.

"V-very," she stammered as she tried to wriggle out of Draco's grasp. Draco's grip tightened on her as he let out a sigh.

"I am so terribly envious of you, Voldemort, for your talent. It sort of is an instant route into the court, isn't it?"

Quite suddenly, Voldemort stopped playing. There was a smile curving his pale lips, though it held no warmth or kindness.

"Young Master Draco, are you sure you're envious? The court is a terribly treacherous place, after all, filled with courtiers much more practiced in the arts of intrigue and manipulation than yourself..." he paused, his eyes on Draco, letting the words sink in. Hermione frowned; it seemed these two had had some sort of altercation...? "Even the slightest word against a man can ruin him," he said in a soft, silky voice. Draco's smile froze on his face before it disappeared completely, and he was scowling down at the composer.

"Thank you for playing for my Mudblood," he simply said harshly before practically dragging Hermione out of the room. Draco stormed down the halls with Hermione in tow and ignored her questions. Hermione had expected that he might leave her alone as he often did when he was in such a foul mood, but instead he pulled her into her room. Surprisingly he did not lock the door behind them.

"M-master Draco?" Hermione tried again tentatively. Draco released her hand and stalked to the window. Hermione waited by the bed, knowing what was inevitable. Draco turned to her, a surprising gleam in his pale eyes.

"Mudblood, do you know what they are saying on the streets of Hogsmeade right now?" he queried in a voice barely louder than a whisper. Hermione recalled sighting Ginny's protruding belly and the hot unfairness of betrayal returned as a burn in the back of her throat.

"No, I do not, master Draco. You forget I am usually locked up in this room," she replied flatly, gesturing round their surroundings. She waited for Draco to reprimand her for her impertinence, but he seemed like he had hardly heard her. He was silhouetted by the window, a dark shadow against the bleached winter light from outside. She could just barely see his smirk.

"Who is Grindelwald's heir?"

Hermione's eyes widened.

"I-I do not know," she confessed. Grindelwald had been king all of her life; she was not even entirely sure of how old he was. In retrospect, she was shocked at herself for never having wondered who Grindelwald's successor might be. He was ancient, so likely too old to naturally produce an heir himself. He had never married, as far as she knew. He had no sons or daughters. She stared quizzically at Draco. Who _was_ Grindelwald's heir, indeed?

Draco gave a callous laugh.

"No one knows who his heir is, Mudblood," he said scathingly. He began advancing on her just as certain realizations began advancing her consciousness and she gasped sharply. "Do you know what other rumors are flying about?" He didn't wait for her to reply as he rounded the bed to come to stand a mere breath from her. "The Mudbloods are revolting. Do you think these two things are simply a coincidence?"

They were treading on dangerous territory now. Hermione swallowed her words, knowing that anything she said would damn her. She wanted to find out _how_ the other slaves were acting against their masters, but obviously this was not a question she could ask her own owner. Another wave of nausea hit her and she sat down on the edge of the bed shakily.

"I do not know, my lord," she said obediently. The smartest move was to feign ignorance. Draco scoffed and joined her on the bed, hovering over her. A new fear hit her when she realized there was a potential that she might become sick during their coupling. "This news is distressing. Might I have a moment alone?" she tried a stab at saving herself. Draco pushed her gown up around her waist.

"No. There is something I want to try, Mudblood," Draco said. His breath was hot on her skin; he was pushing her undergarments out of the way. She heard him mutter something and the door creaked open.

"Master Draco, the door," she stammered. It was only ajar, but it was still humiliating to think that if anyone passed by her room, they'd see her lying there with her skirts bunched up around her waist. Her cheeks burned with embarrassment and she began to edge backwards, away from Draco, but he grasped her thighs.

"Stay put, Mudblood," he barked. She felt him pushing her stockings down her legs; her most private place was now inches from his face. "You'll enjoy this more than I will," he added grimly.

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><p>Hermione went to Voldemort on slightly wobbly legs that evening. She was still reeling from the images with which her mind had provided her when Draco had done<em>that<em> to her, and was surprised to find Voldemort just locking his door. He was wearing his dark cloak, his mouth set in a tight line.

"You're going with me. Come," he said sharply. Hermione fetched her cloak and followed the composer curiously. Again he seemed to be in a foul mood and she wondered blithely what had caused it. The Malfoys had all gone to bed already, so the Manor was eerily silent. Outside, the howling, snow-filled winds threatened to rip her cloak away, and Hermione drew it around her shoulders tighter. He did not speak but her heart ached for him; she wished to converse lightly with him as they often did. There was nothing better than enjoying Voldemort's witty banter...except perhaps having his lips pressed against hers, of course.

"And I suppose I am still not allowed to dare to question you?" she made a sardonic stab at conversation, edging closer to him until their arms brushed. She much preferred walking during the day with him, because then due to propriety he always took her hand on his arm and she could secretly revel in the point of contact. In the black of night, he did not bother with such frivolity.

To her surprise, however, he led her to the stables round the back of the manor. His horse was of a sleek black coat and she recognized it at once as he led it from its stall. "I don't know how to ride," she confessed. Voldemort scoffed.

"It would be stupid for you to ride on your own anyway; you have no horse and the Malfoys would probably not appreciate finding out that a Mudblood had borrowed one of their horses," he sneered. Hermione hated that he was using such a patronizing tone with her, after all that they had been through together, and angry tears pricked her eyes. Before she could supply a retort, he was lifting her up to the saddle.

"We're riding together?" she asked, blinking, as she clumsily crawled up onto the saddle. Voldemort swung up onto the saddle behind her with expert ease. Her cheeks flushed as he gathered the reins, his strong chest against her back, his lean, muscled arms on either side of her. She stiffened, afraid of relaxing into his incidental embrace as he set the horse to a gallop. Between the rush of frosty wind and the warmth of his body pressed against hers, she could not quite catch her breath. They had to be going somewhere far, to merit the use of a horse...

They rode in silence, but the tenseness with which their silence had been fraught on foot melted away as they rode. Soon she relaxed against him, her head against his collarbone. She wished it would never end. She never got to be this close to him. She contemplated, not for the first time, that when she was free, she'd likely never see him again. The very idea of being apart from him was difficult to master; in Voldemort — no, in _Tom — _she felt she had found a kindred spirit. He had already taught her so much, encouraged her in so many ways that no one else ever had. Beyond that was the pure attraction she felt to him: an unmistakable pull that she'd felt from the moment she had first fallen at his feet. When she was freed, she'd have to be on the run for the rest of her life. Every move that she made towards her freedom was a move made away from Voldemort, and the very notion was unthinkable. Against her better judgement, she pressed even closer to him, wishing for a nonverbal way of communicating all of the conflicting things she was feeling.

"We're going to get you a wand," he murmured in her ear as they reached the familiar slums of Hogsmeade. "It won't be ready right away, naturally. And after that, we have to go somewhere else..."

"Where?"

"You'll see."

Hermione trembled from the anticipation of holding a wand of her very own combined with the dread of the finality of such a possession.

"It-it's all going to change, isn't it? It's all about to end," she replied in a shaking voice. They were slowing now; she knew they were nearing Ollivander's home.

Voldemort said nothing in response and it broke her heart. They reached the front of the home, and Hermione tensed, waiting for him to swing down off the horse.

But for one short, breathless, tantalizing moment, his arms stayed over her, still gripping the reins. His hold on her tightened, briefly, and she felt his hard chest pressed against her, his chin over her head. It was not tender so much as possessive, and in that moment she realized she would never really be free of Voldemort, in her own mind and heart, or otherwise.

The temptation to turn and return the embrace was building, but luckily or unluckily, Voldemort moved away and slid down to the ground. He tied up the horse and then helped her off wordlessly.

Hermione was still reeling when they entered Ollivander's home; it seemed that he had been expecting them.

"Times are changing; a Mudblood can own a wand now," he muttered to himself. They stood in his front room, only a single candle burning, as he measured Hermione. Hermione accidentally met Voldemort's eyes, but she hastily looked away. Remembering what Draco had spoken of earlier that afternoon, she spoke, more to take her mind off of Voldemort than anything else.

"Perhaps Grindelwald's successor will really make an upheaval in the traditions," she suggested. Both men looked sharply at her, their eyes wide.

"It is unwise to make conjectures like that," warned Ollivander after he had mastered himself. "You would do well to keep those thoughts to yourself. You are in danger of decapitation for even standing here, child. We all are." He sent a meaningful glance at Voldemort before he continued, though a small smile graced his lips. "But it is indeed a shame that his Majesty never took a queen, or he might console himself as he approaches the end of his life with a son to take his throne."

"I wonder why," Hermione replied, getting the feeling that Ollivander was dropping hints that she was not quite comprehending. "Did he never fall in love?" she asked lightly.

"Oh, I'm sure he fell in love," said Ollivander. He finished measuring and scrawled numbers on a bit of parchment in an elegant script. "You know, sometimes the most passionate love stories are the tales of lovers not permitted to be together. There is nothing like being forced to keep one's love a secret to ignite the most heartened passions..."

For some reason, Hermione met Voldemort's eyes yet again.

"You're saying he fell in love with a Mudblood?" Hermione queried, glancing around to assure herself that they had no unwanted guests. A sly smile curved Ollivander's lips.

"Not quite," he said cryptically. He waved his wand and the parchment disappeared. "I will alert Master Voldemort to when your wand is ready; you are done here."

After such a strange conversation and abrupt dismissal, Hermione was left feeling more than a little uneasy. She mounted Voldemort's horse in a trancelike state, and almost forgot that she was with Voldemort until she found his arms around her again as he gripped the reins.

"Thank you," she said into the night air. "I wish I could repay you; I don't feel I've done anything in return at all."

"You will soon," said Voldemort mysteriously. "Tonight is extremely important to me."

They rode post-haste across Hogsmeade and soon came to a little stone hut with a shabby wooden door; as soon as they dismounted the horse, the door swung open magically, and Voldemort led her inside.

It was a circular one-room dwelling, with an empty cauldron fixed in the middle. A gathering of men waited in the shadows,f and fear gripped Hermione as she froze in the doorway. The door slammed shut again, loud as her pounding heart, and instinctively she moved closer to Voldemort.

"Hermione!"

A familiar voice accompanied a figure breaking away from the group of men; a tall, wiry man of twenty two with untidy black hair and eyes green as emeralds leapt towards her.

"H-harry," Hermione choked out. She promptly forgot all of her upset at Harry and threw her arms around him.

"Who is this?" a sharp voice demanded. Harry ended the hug and pulled Hermione towards the group of men. Severus Snape was there, with a wild-haired handsome man of Snape's age and an ancient-looking man with waist-length white hair and silvery robes.

"Sirius, this is Hermione! I've told you about her!" Harry said eagerly. Hermione had never seen Harry so happy and it warmed her enough to offer a hesitant smile at the men.

"Severus has told us about your unique abilities," said another man, coming forth from the shadows. He had been partially hidden behind Severus and the wild-haired man, apparently named Sirius. This man had light brown hair and young eyes that were in counterpoint to the lines of weariness in his face. "Remus Lupin," he said softly with a smooth bow. Hermione curtseyed unsteadily.

"Tom, it's been a while," said the old man. He looked like an ethereal being with his white hair and silvery robes, especially compared to the other men in the room, who were mostly garbed in dark, shabby clothing. Hermione was shocked that this man would call Voldemort by his real name, and she watched him carefully as he came forward. It didn't take a perceptive observer to see the dislike twisting Voldemort's features as he regarded this elderly man.

"Dumbledore," he greeted curtly.

"This is Sirius, my godfather," Harry explained to Hermione. "And this is Dumbledore; he used to be the composer for the court."

Remus, apparently sensing Hermione's unease, smiled kindly at her.

"Fear not, Hermione. Everyone in this room happens to have one thing in common — we could all be beheaded for being here at all," he explained. Sirius impatiently conjured enough goblets for everyone as Remus held up a bottle of elder wine.

"So depressing, Moony, especially in light of all we've got to celebrate," pouted Sirius as he charmed the wine to fill each goblet before hovering a drink to each person. "I'm sure you're aware, Hermione, of one half of Harry's news?"

"...Half?"

"This is the Mudblood I was telling you about at dinner, lady Granger," drawled Snape in a bored tone. "The one who escaped Azkaban."

"Oh, Harry," Hermione breathed in awe. Harry shot her a careless grin.

"That's nothing, and I got loads of help from Dumbledore," he said modestly. But suddenly his eyes were set aglow with what he said next. "Hermione... Ginny's pregnant."

Hermione opened her mouth to berate him for keeping her in the dark until her sharp mind fit all of the pieces together. The Mudblood who had escaped from Azkaban had been charged with using Dark magic to escape his owners... Harry must have been put in Azkaban when he had found out that Ginny had been pregnant, because he must have tried to escape...

"...It's yours," she concluded, her panic rising. "Harry, if anyone finds out—"

"No one would dare hurt the offspring of a Pureblood," he said immediately, though there was bitterness in his voice. "It'll be passed off as an accident with another Pureblood."

"So then you must have Hexed one of the Weasleys when you found out, to land yourself in Azkaban."

Harry was grinning again, and he gave a casual wave of his hand.

"Oh, that. When I heard what Ron did to you, I admit I lost my temper a bit..." He offered her a sheepish grin as a surge of love for Harry broke through her, and Hermione couldn't resist throwing her arms around him again.

"This is all very entertaining, but we're here on business, and every second longer we're all here together is another second in which we may be discovered," interrupted Snape in a cold, detached voice. Hermione hastily stepped away from Harry, and she was almost positive she hadn't imagined the look of relief on Voldemort's face when she did.

"Is this really everyone? I thought more were coming," said Remus doubtfully, casting a glance round the room. Dumbledore chuckled.

"Not everyone is brave enough to venture to the King's alchemist's home, especially with all of his Majesty's spies crawling about town," he reminded the younger man gently. Remus sighed, raking a hand through his hair. "Tom, is Hermione aware of our purpose?"

Voldemort stiffened at the use of his first name again, and a sneer of dislike curved his pale lips.

"Not exactly, but I guarantee you she is willing," he replied acidly.

"Concubines are rarely as motivated as slaves to escape," Sirius thought aloud, studying Hermione. "After all, they tend to live rather comfortably..."

Heat rushed to Hermione's face as she narrowed her eyes at Sirius.

"You try being raped by someone at their slightest whim every day and then we'll see how motivated you are," she hissed at him, forgetting herself. The others drew back slightly in surprise, and the look of doubt was wiped off of Sirius' face. "In truth I have never been _more_ motivated to escape."

This was only partially a lie, and if not for Voldemort, it would have been the whole truth. Sirius smirked.

"Simmer down, I apologize. You're right — if I had to share a bed with any Malfoy, I'd be pretty unhappy about it," he conceded. "But our mission requires loyalty, and we can't have loose ends."

"Mission?"

"We're planning to assassinate Grindelwald, naturally," Sirius replied easily.

Just then, Dumbledore hurled a curse at the door. In a flash of glittering blue light, it splintered, letting in gusts of snow-driven wind.

"Sorry about that," he said casually, "but I just realized we've got a visitor."


	10. Act Ten: Rubato

Lacrimosa

Author's Note: So... *taps fingers together* I admit it. This is not the last chapter. I am not even going to try to estimate how many chapters are left, because odds are I will be completely wrong.

**note: **There is a plot point in this chapter that is revealed that will leave some of you very, _very_ pissed off at me. Please have faith in me; everything in this fic has happened for a reason. And, sometimes things that look cliche...well, just see for yourselves. *slinks off to hide from angry readers*

Now, brace yourselves: yes, I got a beta. She has done beta work for me before for other fandoms and was kind enough to work her magic on this chapter as well, since I am trying to improve. **Special thanks to the insanely talented wingedmercury for beta-ing this and listening to me whine about this fic with endless patience.** If any of you read Naruto fanfic, or just are interested in reading stuff with original plotlines and avant garde voice, check her out. Seriously, she is writing an entire fic in second-person, and it's the best use of 2nd person I've ever seen, in both original novels and fanfiction.

Also BIG thanks to everyone who reviewed the last chapter, because you guys are just plain BAMFs: **Clyde Mordia, solussword, Princess Chelcy, Chamilia Lutien Tinuviel, Auburn, Shubhs, ****Annevader,** **Anguis Intrepidus, Night's Warrior, NargleWatch, BeNeRe, lunapeacock, roon0, voldemort. likes. kittens, Lady Riddle-Black, throwing rocks, Kissable-Luxury, riddle1rave, BlackShirt16, WannaLove, Elspethe, SamarKanda, AmazingMe123, A. Deca , wingedmercury, DArk 16EtErnIty z8, m0nt, vamp1987, sugurrushx3, LittleHellCat, moor, Que9, MeriLynelle, bailey vicious, Speechwriter, ShadowAngel55, cocoartist, FiOnAFiO, Beloveddreamer, and Sin-and-Smokin.**

PLEASE REVIEW!

Disclaimer: the HP universe does not belong to me; I am just borrowing.

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><p><strong>Act Ten: Rubato<strong>

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><p>"You've done well, Draco," cooed Narcissa, her bony fingers stroking his blond head. The torches flickered around the windowless room; a draft hit Draco's face as King Grindelwald continued to pace back and forth before him furiously. His elegant cloaks and robes swirled around him, the jewels sewn into the cloak glittering in the dim light.<p>

"You are positive you saw him, boy?" demanded Grindelwald suddenly, turning on the Malfoys, who were hunched in the corner of this room. They all jumped slightly at his urgency. His fury had infused new life into his decrepit features; never had a king looked more formidable and _regal _than Grindelwald appeared now. His blue eyes were piercing; his strong German features seemed to come alive through the sagging, lined skin. His magic, so powerful, so awe-inspiring, was sparking in the air around him, causing the flames in the torches to roar higher — too high to be safe. Draco felt perspiration slide down his neck and drip onto his silk collar.

"Y-yes, your majesty," he choked, kneeling hastily, his palms and knees scuffing against the grimy stone floor.

It wasn't supposed to be like this. When Draco had done himself up in his finest coat and largest wig and returned to King Grindelwald's throne room, he had stupidly expected congratulations from the King. He had conjectured that perhaps Grindelwald might offer him some sort of advising position, and his name would've gone down in had even entertained the possibility that Grindelwald might have been so impressed by his obvious loyalty and named him as the next heir to the throne.

Instead they'd been trapped in this tiny, cramped, dank room for hours while Grindelwald made cryptic orders to people that Draco had never seen before. _If they're so important, why haven't they been to any of the balls?_he thought with snide resentment. But there was little point to contemplating it; he and his parents were as good as hostages now of Grindelwald. He was beginning to tremble slightly as the urge to urinate became overwhelming, but he dared not ask Grindelwald if he could be excused to relieve himself.

"You are positive that it was him?"

"I-I'd b-bet my life on it, your H-highness."

Grindelwald swept up to tower over him. He was dark, silhouetted by the crackling flames behind him. Only his blue eyes were glittering and sparking, much like the flames themselves. A sneer was beginning to curve his lips. Draco was starting to understand how this man could have taken control of Hogsmeade; he had never been more terrified in his life. His blood was thumping in his ears like war drums.

"Funny. I'll hold you to your word on that," he said coolly. Draco swallowed the bile rising in his throat.

Rodolphus, Aunt Bellatrix's husband, swaggered into the room. He was looking amused, but the stony look on Grindelwald's face wiped away his brutish smirk at once. Rodolphus dropped into a deep bow.

"Your Majesty," he began, his hand over his heart, "the Blood Traitors have reformed the Order."

"What a surprise, Lestrange. Are you going to next inform me that it is snowing outside?" Grindelwald replied tartly. Draco's eyes darted between the two men. _The Order? What is the Order?_

"E-er, your Majesty, it is all the same members as before. I have not heard from Lady Lestrange yet."

"Oh, I'm sure Bellatrix is a fair match for Severus," said Grindelwald mildly. "At least _she _will require no backup. Unless Albus is there...then there will be a bit of a problem," he added. He rounded on Rodolphus again. "Fetch Ariana," he ordered feverishly. Rodolphus scrambled to his feet and with an oily utterance of his permanent allegiance, scuttled down the dark corridor.

_Ariana?_ Who was Ariana? A sense of awful dread whose origin he could not place was filling like lead at the pit of his stomach. There was something horrible about the name Ariana — not the name itself, but somehow it conveyed to Draco a sense that something horrific was soon to take place.

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><p>Fear gripped Hermione, nearly rooting her to the spot, as Dumbledore and Snape each darted for the door with no hesitation. Dumbledore was surprisingly sprightly, but Snape reached the splintered remains first and blasted them out of the way. The others hastened to look out the door into the snowy night. The bitter wind rushed in, clawing at their faces; the end of winter always seemed to bring the harshest snows.<p>

It was unmistakably a woman's figure; her black cloak was flapping behind her like smoke.

"Lady Lestrange," Snape remarked silkily, brandishing his wand. "_Petrificus—"_ he began, raising his wand, but Bellatrix Disapparated at that moment in a whorl of smoke, a wild cackle emanating throughout the snow like a death rattle.

"How much did she hear?" Sirius wondered out loud as he lunged pointlessly into the swirling snow, mouth agape as he stared at where his cousin had Disapparated. A pang of something shot through Hermione and she turned to Voldemort, who seemed to have the exact same realization as she **x**had had**x** at the very same time.

"Potter, you might want to seek out the mother of your child," said Voldemort coolly as he drew his wand. Harry went white as the snow surrounding him.

"Wh-what? Why Ginny?" he stammered.

"There is every likelihood that Lady Lestrange heard your good news, Harry," said Hermione, trying in vain to keep the rising hysteria she was experiencing out of her voice. "We've got to_go_. Come on," she choked, grasping Harry's arm.

"You might not have heard, Potter, but Bella has a certain hobby to occupy her time when she isn't performing," explained Voldemort. "In fact, if not for your Pureblooded father, you would have perished by this hobby of hers."

"S-she'd never hurt a Pureblood," stammered Harry, though Hermione could see he was panicking as well. "I've got to go to her," he added, his hands shaking. "Can I borrow someone's horse?"

Voldemort rounded on Hermione, a hint of a smile on his pale lips.

"Now might be a fine time to attempt Apparition...though if you miss your target spot, the consequences will be deadly," he mused. "But what is education without a little motivation?"

"This is hardly the time for joking," Hermione countered tartly. Still, Voldemort was right. She had seen others do it enough times; she knew the theory behind it. Without further hesitation, she darted over to Harry, who was sloshing through the snow towards Voldemort's dark horse. "Come on, Harry, there's no time," she said before grasping his arm. _Visualize your target,_ she told herself, recalling the Apparition lessons she had seen her various masters undergo. Hermione pictured the Burrow, though it broke her heart to do it. The last time she'd been there, she had been humiliated by the agony of the loss of the man she had mistakenly thought she'd loved. It wouldn't do to become emotional; it would hurt her chances of a successful Apparition. _Turn on the spot..._

Still clutching Harry's arm, she turned them on the spot, and they disappeared into the night air with a sharp _crack._

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><p>"Looks like it's beginning in earnest now," observed Severus as the remaining men looked between each other. Tom schooled his features to give nothing of himself away before he spoke.<p>

"Now what?" he asked the group at large. Severus scoffed loudly.

"As if you really need an answer to that, Voldemort."

With a sigh, Dumbledore heralded them all back into Severus' home and conjured a new door.

"Can Harry's friend really hold off Bellatrix?" Remus asked, frowning. Now it was Tom's turn to scoff.

"I assure you that Sirius will not be getting his cousin back in one piece when Lady Granger is finished with her," he said with a smirk. The looks of fear on Sirius and Remus' faces was most satisfying. "We need not worry about her."

"Without a wand, though?" Remus pressed. "She seemed such a lovely girl. I wouldn't want her to—"

"He does not jest, Lupin. Bellatrix is not much of a challenge for her," interrupted Severus dismissively. "Forget about her and the boy for now. We have bigger problems at hand."

"We'll need a group to storm Hogwarts,"said Dumbledore thoughtfully as he checked a timepiece that hung from a delicate silver chain round his neck. "I suppose I shall call the others?"

"That would be prudent," said Snape, "I imagine we have very little time left before Grindelwald calls forward the Inferi. No doubt he's already been alerted." Snape cast a wary glance at his new door. "I _would _say I'm confident that he's had no spies overhearing what we've said, but if Bellatrix could breach my wards, his spies will have done better, for certain..."

"Then there's no time. Dumbledore — call together the Order. We can't storm the castle without them," said Sirius, pounding his fist against one of the wooden cabinets for emphasis. Tom masked a smirk at how Severus winced when his precious phials jiggled inside the case from the force.

"I suppose I ought to call my _friends_," sighed Remus with great reluctance. He turned to Tom with a pointed stare. "I'll be needing your help — you're on better terms with Greyback than I am."

Tom held his tongue; now was an inappropriate time to remark on how they had once scorned him for his connections, and yet now they didn't bat a moral eyelash when requesting that he make use of them. After all, they had to trust him now, and they never would if he let his temper get the better of him. Still, it was _so _tempting to teach Remus Lupin to never sneer at his followers ever again; he fought the urge to brandish his wand. Pasting on a complacent expression, he nodded his assent.

"Very well. Severus?" Dumbledore turned a questioning gaze to Snape, who was already donning one of his heavy black cloaks.

"You know where I must go," he replied with a grimace. Like Bellatrix, Severus Disapparated in a whorl of smoke.

"Then Sirius, come with me," ordered Dumbledore. Dumbledore's famous silent Apparition was followed by the harsh _crack _of Sirius' Apparition. Tom took a moment to relish the pride of having seen Hermione Apparate on her first try, but naturally, he had not been surprised. She was just like him in so many ways, after all...

He just needed to find a way to call her back to him soon; her biggest part in his plot was yet to come.

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><p>When they landed outside of the Burrow, it was on shaky feet. They both gasped as Hermione looked over them both in wonder.<p>

"H-how the _hell _did you do that without a wand, Hermione?" demanded Harry breathlessly. His hands were still clutching his knees as they each attempted to steady themselves. Pride rushed through her in waves; she wished Voldemort had been there so she could see and relish his reaction to her wandless apparition. No doubt he would have tried to hide how pleased with her he was...

"I just sort of...did it. I'm not sure," she admitted, trying hard to not look too pleased with herself. Now was not the time for congratulatory self-gloating; they had to ensure that Ginny was okay.

From the outside, the Burrow looked as it always did. Both Hermione and Harry looked around at the rather still street. Nothing looked out of place; it didn't _look _like Bellatrix had been here yet.

Cautiously, still anticipating the worst, Harry and Hermione entered the mansion. It had grown even shabbier than when Hermione had been courting Ron in secret; it was all too easy to pry open the creaking wooden front door. Her stomach churned in fear, even though she imagined that, had Bellatrix reached here first, they'd know it.

Harry went forward first with little trepidation, and Hermione followed him inside. Respect for her friend flooded her and she blinked back tears, imagining how he was probably feeling right now. The fact that he could open the doors with such a steady hand was incredible to her.

They stood in one of the second-floor parlors, mostly empty save for a shabby carpet and a few pieces of worn tapestried furniture. She'd always liked this room, however, because the row of enormous windows wrapped around, giving the impression that they were sitting on the clouds.

The silence buzzed in the air; they continued to explore for what felt like ages, but the Burrow appeared entirely empty. The fear that had been pounding and bubbling in her throat now seemed to sink like a stone to the pit of her stomach as she came to the realization that, very likely, Bellatrix had already lured the Weasleys away from the house somehow.

Harry seemed to come to the same conclusion, because suddenly, the windows surrounding them exploded, sending shards of glass everywhere. Hermione did not dare reach a comforting hand out to her friend. She stared at his back. The respect she had felt just minutes ago dissolved as she realized he had been simply letting his rage and fear build up inside of him.

"They can't have gone far, Harry," she said in what was meant as a soothing voice. Unfortunately, her nerves shook her and the nausea that had been plaguing her recently came back. She pressed her lips together, hoping the urge to vomit would pass. In spite of the frigid night air now coming in through the broken windows like unbidden ghosts, perspiration was sliding down her neck, matting her hair to her scalp uncomfortably, gathering on her palms. The bile was rising and she swayed a bit.

When Harry turned to her again, his eyes were dry, but he was pale as death.

"D'you think you could manage that wandless Apparition again?" His laugh was callous and hollow. At the moment, Hermione wasn't sure she could have managed walking down the stairs, but in spite of everything she simply nodded, trying not to nod too vigorously lest she worsen the nausea. "We'll try the stocks first, I guess," he thought aloud, raking a trembling hand through his hair. "She's got to be alright still. There just isn't enough time for that woman to have —"

"Stop, Harry. We'll find her." Hermione greedily took in deep breaths of the cold air, trying to steady herself. When the nausea had passed, she took his arm again. "Ready?"

Harry didn't respond; she turned them on the spot.

They Apparated to the stocks, but they were abandoned and empty. The city was silent; it certainly did not feel like all of this chaos was actually occurring. Hermione considered Apparating them back to Snape's home, but decided that was a poor choice. Harry insisted that she return to Malfoy Manor; if they had already discovered she was gone, they'd be looking for her, and she'd be hanged or killed by the Killing Curse as punishment. Reluctant to leave her friend, but seeing his point, she hastily Apparated back to her room at Malfoy Manor.

Hermione had been bracing herself for an attack, as she was still unsure of whether Bellatrix had seen her in Snape's home, but the manor was deathly silent when she returned. For a moment, she pressed her ear to the door, trying vainly to still her frantic panting enough to hear properly. She waited until she was positive she could not hear anyone moving about nearby.

Cautiously, Hermione crept out into the corridor, muscles tense and body poised to attack, defend, or Apparate at the first sign of trouble.

But Malfoy Manor appeared to be completely empty. In the stillness, the hairs rose on the back of her neck. She strained her ears to hear as she continued along the hall, but she heard no voices.

Were the Malfoys asleep, or out? She did not want to risk going to their wing of the manor only to be caught creeping around at night, but if they were gone, it was probably because they had been notified by Bellatrix... She passed by Voldemort's chambers and, overcome with a feeling she could not place, she went inside.

Her stomach gave another lurch and Hermione dropped down onto the piano bench, her fingers ghosting over the icy white keys. She let out a shuddering breath as tears pricked at the corners of her eyes: _why _was she crying? She blinked rapidly to halt the onset, but they would not stop. She could not stop thinking of the windows shattering around Harry as he thought of his unborn child; she could not stop from wondering if she would live to see the sunrise; she could not stop thinking of Voldemort's lovely hands on these very keys.

"S-stop crying," she whimpered to herself, in what had been intended as a stern tone but came out as little more than a whine. The tears were streaming down her cheeks now as the nausea made the room spin. Perhaps she was ill, and perhaps it didn't matter if she was killed by the Malfoys or not. Perhaps she would simply die from illness.

Sick and scared, she rose to her feet and crawled to Voldemort's bed. She wished he were here. It felt weak and foolish to wish for him, for he could not save her, but she couldn't find the energy to fight against it. When she settled on the blankets, the musky scent of his skin rose up around her and was more comforting than it ought to have been; Hermione buried her face in his pillow and inhaled deeply, relieved when the flow of tears was staunched.

Perhaps her comfort was because she had come to view Voldemort as her only escape; her only lifeline in a world that was otherwise hauntingly lonely. When he had entered her life, the isolation she had felt for as long as she could recall had come to a screeching halt.

Even with Harry and Ron, it had never felt so _intimate_. She had loved them both in different ways but there had always been a degree of separation. Perhaps it was because Harry had been ensured a safe place, thanks to being purchased by the Weasleys, while her future had never been certain. Or perhaps she was just too different from them...Ron, with his complacency, could never understand her ambition. And Harry shone like a beacon of morality, whereas Hermione lately sensed a shadowy aspect to her own character, like the effigy of a monster stowed beneath a child's bed, peering out from the hem of the coverlet. Harry would never have stolen from a vendor; she had done it with little more than an instant's hesitation.

Yet with Voldemort, she could draw so many parallels between them that it was unnerving. The word 'soulmate' came to mind but he probably would have laughed hysterically at that — not only because Voldemort did not seem the type to hold much stock in such soft and humane concepts but also because he likely thought her to be far beneath him. He likely thought _everyone _was far beneath him.

Thus she lay there for a few moments, her eyes scrunched shut, and drew in deep, even breaths. Her fingers curled around the edge of the coverlet; clutching it closer to her, her other arm slung across her belly. The light pressure of the weight of her arm seemed to ease the nausea slightly.

_I have to get out of here before someone discovers me here, _she told herself wearily. It took a considerable amount of willpower just to rise from the bed. Feeling sentimental, she strode to the piano, whereupon lay several scratched out copies of a composition entitled _Lacrimosa_. Notes were scrawled in Voldemort's elegant hand, and she stole one of the copies that looked most marked-up and edited. It was wrong to steal, but her desire to have some piece of him close to her overrode any morality she had left. Hermione folded the parchment and slid it in the neckline of her dress, where it now rested over her heart.

The slam of the front entry startled her and she Apparated back to her room, not risking being seen rushing back along the corridor. The Apparition had reinforced her nausea, and she stumbled over to the chamber pot in the corner, clutching the sides. Her unruly hair fell around her flushed face as the bile rose and she emptied the meager contents of her stomach in several miserable heaves.

Her grip tightened on the rim of the basin just as the door opened. For an instant she prayed it might be Voldemort, but she realized now how foolish that hope had been. There was an uprising; he would not be returning to Malfoy Manor any time soon.

It was Madame Umbridge, her eyes aglow with something unrecognizable.

"Lady Mudblood," she mocked in a syrupy voice, stepping inside. Hermione wiped her mouth on her wrist, feeling marginally better now that she'd vomited. But what was Umbridge doing in here? "Sick again? Been sick quite often lately? All the maids have been talking about how they hear you retching early in the morning," she continued loftily.

Was she pleased that Hermione was clearly ill and, as Mudbloods were never given any healing, would likely die from whatever this illness was? Hermione frowned. They could have killed her long ago; why would Umbridge find such pleasure in her being ill?

"Yes. I've been coming down with something recently," she said carefully, her voice raspy from how her bile had burned her throat with its acid. Umbridge burst into shrill, silvery laughter that shot straight up Hermione's spine.

"Oh, you poor silly little Mudblood," she said sweetly, batting her lashes. "You really don't know?"

Had Umbridge poisoned her? Hermione felt the blood drain from her formerly flushed face. Was she dying due to poisoning? How humiliating. After all her dark thoughts of Umbridge's stupidity, the woman was going to get the better of her?

"You poisoned me?" she whispered, rising to her feet. Well, if she were going to die anyway, she was determined to pay Umbridge back. _In spades. _And she had more than a few Hexes in mind. But Umbridge did nothing more than let out another girlish giggle that was strictly at odds with her toadish countenance.

"Oh, _no_, Mudblood. I'd never _dream _of doing such a horrible thing! That would be damaging Master Malfoy's property! But I admit that I may have been forgetting the contraceptive herbs in your tea..." she clapped a pudgy little hand over her mouth in mock-embarrassment. "Oops!"

Hermione couldn't breathe. She had lost the ability to draw breath. She could not be pregnant. The world spun around her, but this time it was from pure shock.

"I-it's impossible," she stammered finally, wishing desperately that she knew the exact charm for determining pregnancy. Umbridge shrugged and withdrew her wand.

"Let's see, shall we?"

Hermione had seen this charm enough times before in action to know what it looked like. The yellow glow that was cast in the air around her was confirmation, and it felt about the same as a deadbolt being slammed in place on a cast-iron door.

She was doomed.

Umbridge let out a ponderous sigh. "I _do _hope Lady Lestrange doesn't hear of this. Her hobby is not one you will find enjoyable, I am sorry to say." The way her piggy little eyes glittered said otherwise. "Why don't you lie down? Your masters will return soon."

Hermione stood stock-still, not reacting openly to the humiliating insinuation of 'your masters' as Umbridge left; she heard the lock click in place and, had she not been so purely _horrified _she would have laughed at the audacity of Umbridge to think that a silly little lock would stop her from leaving if she were so inclined.

With legs like lead, Hermione went to the bed and sat down. She had to think; she had to come up with a plan. If she didn't...a fate far worse than death awaited her.


	11. Act Eleven: Cantata

Lacrimosa

Author's Notes: Sorry for the long wait; I really hope you guys enjoy this chapter.

First of all, so much thanks to the genius, **wingedmercury**, for taking time to beta this chapter.

Second, thanks to everyone who reviewed: **OphyBoing, Sethera, Bubbles523, Annevader, Barfday, HelloIAmGracie, Cupcakify4, mumz3l-Neskouiik-bura, neko-chan, .g-baby, LoriAnnRut, luvslinkpk88, ThereAre666Ways2Love, BeNeRre, Mimo-Sene, voldybadass, TK Grimm, Vanity Storm, Boo, sports7, NargleWatch, le-femme-cavalier, Shubhs, Shan84, MaeganFarrow, mufincakes, trestreschic, FiOnAFiO, Speechwriter, bailey vicious, ClydeMordia, MeriLynelle, aringle42, Nerys, Galadrieliel, wingedmercury, ConfederateWidow, SamarKanda, Que9, Elric-Chan, Account Currently On Hiatus, vamp1987, moor, oneandonlyluver, A. Deca, DArk 16EtErnIty z8, and marana1. **

Seriously, you all rock. I was looking over the review list so I could get all your names down and I was hit anew with how sweet, helpful, and fun your reviews always are. I can't tell you guys enough how much I appreciate all your kind words :)

Disclaimer: The HP universe does not belong to me.

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><p>Act Eleven: Cantata<p>

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><p>The woods were dark and lovely in the snow. Behind Lupin, Tom crept, holding his wand aloft in anticipation. In front of him, the werewolf was visibly trembling, and Tom smirked at the man's cowardice. He resisted the urge to make sport of Lupin's fear — Greyback was nearly as amused by the cowardice of other men as Tom was, and were he to follow Tom's example and also make sport of Lupin, it would be a bloodbath.<p>

And that really interfered with his own plans, after all.

"T-they ought to be somewhere round here," Lupin said loudly. It was a feeble attempt at bravery. With a scoff, Tom pushed onward.

"You're pathetic," he sneered, lighting his wand and continuing on the path. It only took a few simple spells before up ahead, in a parting in the tree tops, a full moon shimmered in the night sky. The spells were, naturally, nothing Lupin himself would ever attempt.

"No, you can't—" Lupin halted when he realized that he was not changing, as he stared down at his still-human limbs in surprise. "An illusion?"

"A signal, imbecile. Now, be quiet — with all your blubbering, we might miss our rendezvous."

Lupin made a noise at Tom's admonishment but all the same silenced himself. Crouched and ready, the two men strained their ears and eyes.

It happened suddenly, and it took a trained eye to see it. In the heavy darkness, shapes began to shift: eerie spectres began to materialize. Glowing patches — light hitting the backs of their eyes — flickered like the eyes of the dead. This was the stuff of nightmares, and yet, Tom felt no fear. He relaxed and stood tall and proud, waiting for the halflings to show themselves in the moonlight. But they were hesitant, and holding back. A faint smirk curved his pale lips. Greyback was no fool — he knew who to fear.

"Voldemort."

On silent paws, Fenrir Greyback emerged, the luminous eyes of his pack still watchful from the shadows. "And the pup himself, Remus Lupin," Greyback growled jeeringly. Raking, barking laughter resounded from, it seemed, the trees themselves. Lupin openly scowled; this was the first sign of true bravery that Voldemort had seen from the man yet. Of course, Greyback was hardly shaken, and he dismissively snorted at Lupin before turning to Voldemort and bowing slightly. "I suppose the time has come?" He swiped his big pink tongue over his chops.

"Yes, the time has come to overthrow Gri—"

With an impatient swipe of his wand, Tom silenced Lupin before turning back to Greyback.

"Prepare your pack — you will receive a signal from me. You will know it when you see it." At this, Tom prepared to Disapparate with the still-mute Lupin, but Greyback stopped him.

"She's already been here tonight, Voldemort," he said in a low, gravelly bark, his yellow eyes flashing.

Tom grasped his wand.

"Let us pray that you join the right side, then." He paused, holding his wand meaningfully, waiting for the brute to make his next move. Greyback bared his canines in a grin.

"Oh, we have, my Lord," he whined like the lowly dog he truly was. "Regulus was here as well... and Rabastan."

Behind him, Lupin was throwing a silent fit, but Tom was gazing too rapturously at the woods around him to be bothered.

"Regulus, you say? Regulus Black?" he murmured. Greyback began to laugh a dry, bone-rattling laugh.

Around them, the trees seemed to hiss with laughter as well. Tom allowed himself to meet Greyback's smirk with his own. "This will certainly be interesting, won't it?"

Greyback's smirk broadened; the effect was hideous and cruel in its victory.

"I believe it will be, my Lord."

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><p>Had the others dealt with Bellatrix? Had Harry found and saved Ginny? These thoughts were inconsequential compared to the fear and panic seizing Hermione as she sat on her bed, trembling, observing the crows like black gashes against the snow outside. How she ached for Voldemort to be here now...<p>

...And yet...He would not be proud of her, would he?

Her stomach lurched yet again, and this time it was not morning sickness. No, this was the nausea of guilt and shame. Here she sat, wallowing in her own fear and pity; here she sat, a sitting duck, awaiting her inevitable fate like some powerless damsel, wishing for a prince who would never come to save her from the wicked witch.

She'd come this far, hadn't she? Hermione looked down at her hands, scarred and calloused from a life of servitude, yet still small and, admittedly, somewhat elegant. These hands of hers curled into fists; the trembling stopped.

She was not a damsel. She had survived countless beatings; abandonment by nearly everyone she had ever loved; repeated rape; humiliation; torture... Her life had always been desolate, so why should she crumble now? Her inner strength was precisely what she always had secretly prided herself on — why was she forgetting that she was made of something stronger than anyone else?

An odd calm settled over Hermione. No, she would not sit here and await Bellatrix. She would not be a damsel — she would be her own prince. Holding one hand over her yet unchanged abdomen (would a baby even survive in a womb that had endured so many years of malnourishment?), Hermione rose from the bed. She heard the front door of Malfoy Manor fling open; she heard Bellatrix's unbalanced, throaty, yet still rich cackling.

She would confront this wicked witch, yet first, she had something to do. Just as the door to her bedroom flung open, revealing Bellatrix with Narcissa and Draco hot on her heels, Hermione turned on the spot and effortlessly Disapparated yet again.

When she Apparated, a wave of nausea passed over her that was mostly stifled by the gust of cold air and the rush of icy snow over her bare cheeks. It was dark here, the howling wind nearly drowning out the cawing of the crows, yet she was positive she could still somehow hear Bellatrix's shriek of fury at her disappearance. Hermione's lips curved at Bellatrix's rage and she used this amusement to quell her own fears rising up in her throat, quickening her heartbeat as she approached the drooping, pathetic dwelling. As she stepped out of the moon's light and into the shadow cast by the sagging overhang, the hairs abruptly rose on the back of her neck.

The door, which normally could not be opened if it were visible, was not only visible but was hanging off its hinges.

Hermione swallowed her fear and performed a Disillusionment charm, though she speculated that it would likely not be enough to protect her from something that could have found Ollivander's dwelling. Now blending in with her surroundings, she crept inside, her desperation to acquire a wand — any wand, really — outweighing her fear.

Inside it was dark and the silence was prickly. Hermione held her breath, waiting for...what? She didn't know, really, what she was expecting to find. After a moment, she finally registered a sound: dripping.

Was there a leak in the roof? Hermione crept further into the room, allowing the moonlight streaming in to light her way partially. She felt along the walls tentatively as she moved on silent feet, when quite suddenly, she smacked into something.

Before she could stop herself, she let out a yelp of surprise, and then froze, waiting to be attacked. But nothing happened — there was only an odd creaking sound, and more dripping. What had she run into? It had been rough fabric over something stiff.

She felt like she might be sick again as she realized wetness was sopping the front of her gown, bleeding through her cloak and the cloth of her stomacher. Determining that nothing was in this house with her, she crept back to the shaft of moonlight coming in from the doorway and rubbed along her cloak to pick up some of the liquid. It was probably just melted snow from a leak, but what on earth had she run into?

The creaking and dripping had mostly subsided by now, though every time she heard the creaking, another chill went up her spine, freezing the blood in her veins. It sounded like swinging, though hard as she strained her memory, she could not recall anything hanging from the ceiling before. She put it out of her mind as she whispered _finite incantatem_ and became visible again. She reached the chink of moonlight and held her hand up to the light.

Something dark, slick, and of a thin, watery consistency was coating her fingers.

Blood.

Now she could not control her shaking. Hermione cast one of her blue fires and held it up, lighting up the room. Blue light was cast on the barren room, and with her blood thumping in her veins and the world spinning around her, she held the light towards the other side of the room.

This time, she felt a scream building up, but it never was able to wrench out of her throat, and instead, she stood there in the tiny room, gasping for air that would not come.

Ollivander's body, already stiff from death, hung from the ceiling like a grotesque marionette. Someone had had a bit of fun with a knife, apparently, for blood still streamed from deep gashes, dribbling onto the dusty, worn wooden floorboards. His entrails were hanging from a large wound in his stomach, spilling out over the gash in his robes. The blood looked like it was nearly gone from his body, and the last of it was dripping from his many wounds.

"Don't wilt now," she told herself harshly, her breath clouding before her. As she studied the room more closely, she could see evidence of advanced spellwork. There had been a duel here, and it looked as though someone had been desperate to acquire Ollivander's wands, for there were black smudges on the walls that looked to be the remains of explosive spells.

It was so cold that the room had not become marred with the scent of death and blood; like the street outside, it smelled like snow and cold.

When she finally had recovered from the shock, Hermione felt she might give into her own misery when she realized the implications of Ollivander's death for her.

Someone must have found out that he was supplying Mudbloods with wands.

And someone must have very much wanted to stop him from giving Mudbloods wands.

Feeling desperate, and perhaps secretly praying that Ollivander had anticipated disaster and had hidden the wand especially for her, Hermione began to look around the room. In the corner, a little table had been overturned, and a vase was smashed, with dark flowers splayed out around it. The water was gone; it was surprising that the flowers were not dead. Hermione knelt down to examine them, holding her blue flame over them for better visibility.

Upon closer inspection, they proved to be black tulips, as velvety and perfect as the ones in Grindelwald's garden. She touched them and something sharp gripped her heart: loneliness. In her memory, images of walking with Voldemort that day, when the Malfoys had gone to visit Grindelwald and his garden, sprang forth: his hands, so elegant and yet masculine, brushing his fingertips alongside hers over the black tulips.

Had that really been so few weeks ago? It felt like an eternity. The loneliness squeezed her heart again, and, thinking of his composition still pressed, folded, to her breast, her fingers curled over the black tulip. Warmth instantly surged through her, emboldening and infusing life into her quite suddenly. Macabre as it was to take flowers from a dead man's home, she could not bear to leave the flowers here. Memories of Voldemort were so powerful for her.

However, as soon as she picked up one of the flowers, the air around it shimmered and it transformed into a stick.

Wait...Not a stick.

A wand.

Hermione nearly dropped it, but gripped it tighter in her sweaty hand. Ollivander _had_ anticipated trouble, though she wondered at how he could have possibly known that the black tulips might catch her eye. A fear that this might not be a wand intended for her washed over her like icy water, but she cast it aside. She couldn't afford to think like that now — she needed to get away from here, and fast.

She looked down at the wand in her hand as her fear dissipated and an odd calculating calm settled over her as she stared down at it.

Hermione rose, gripping her wand, feeling steadier than she had in hours — no, in_years. _Her breath came in short gasps, her hands were shaking, but it was not from fear. It was from exhilaration.

She was holding a wand with the intent of using it.

She, who could Apparate without a wand, was holding a wand. Possibly her own wand.

There was nothing to stop her anymore.

She should have been afraid of the power, but it only warmed her in a way that heat never could. She stood taller, prouder, pushing her shoulders back. She had braved some of the worst things that mankind had to offer, and here she was, still standing, more powerful than ever before. This was her reward for her suffering: to be able to fight back, to be able to break the cycle of pain and suffering for future generations.

Here, in her hands, she was holding the key to changing the world. She knew it.

She knew she and Voldemort — together — would change the world.

Adrenaline and something else were coursing through her veins now. She calmly walked to Ollivander's body and, using a few simple charms that Voldemort had taught her, severed the rope holding him up and hovered him gently to the floor.

Now she could see that the rope had been his own doing; he had hanged himself, most likely after being attacked and left to die a slow, painful death. She couldn't blame him; she'd prefer a quick death than a slow one as well. She closed his eyes and stripped off her cloak, feeling strangely confident that she would be able to find another one, and covered his body with it. She couldn't risk a proper burial now, and in this cold, even with magic, it would take hours to dig a grave.

Hermione left Ollivander's, her wand drawn, as she pondered her next move. She was at odds with herself, for her eyes burned from exhaustion and her body screamed for food and rest, but her mind was alive as it had not been in so long, and a thirst to show herself — and the world — what she could do with this wand was nearly overpowering her baser needs.

So, with a resounding _crack_, Hermione returned to Malfoy Manor for the last time.

* * *

><p>"You went into hiding without telling me?" Harry roared. Ron hid behind his hands, the lace on his cuffs helping to hide his face further from Harry's rage. The other Weasleys, save for Ginny, were standing in varying forms of bemusement around them. Only Ginny stood proudly before Harry, her belly swollen with child and her sharp chin held high.<p>

"Harry, calm down," she ordered sharply. "We couldn't find you, and we couldn't wait any longer." She rested a pale, freckled hand on her belly, giving Harry a significant look. Harry's shoulders rose up and down rapidly as he attempted to catch his breath after a powerful burst of rage, but he still could not seem to calm himself down.

He'd only found the Weasleys, hiding outside of Hogsmeade in an abandoned Muggle house, after a recent tip from Dumbledore. He had been searching all night, with no sign of any Weasleys, and only then had been surprised by Dumbledore Apparating directly to him, with news of where the Weasleys had gone.

The rage at having been abandoned, in spite of being the father of Ginny's child, had been unexpected. It had exploded inside of him, scalding his throat and causing his eyes to tear. His mind went, so quickly, to assuming that they had abandoned him because of his blood status. It had taken Dumbledore nearly an hour to reassure him, even though in his heart he knew it, that the Weasleys had only been thinking of Ginny's safety and had been frantic with fear.

But he couldn't rid his mind of one niggling thought: not _all_ of the Weasleys were so kind-hearted, were they? Hadn't Ron happily abandoned Hermione, in favor of a Pureblooded, legitimate wife?

...What if, after all this mess was over, Ginny married? What if Ginny found a new father for their son? If the child resembled Harry at all, if there were any suspicion, and Ginny married another man, he'd be executed for sure.

Now, standing in the shabby parlor — Mrs. Weasley had done her best to fix up the house, but it hadn't been quite enough — staring at the Weasleys, it was eight against one.

"Fine," he finally managed to choke out, in a raspingwhisper. "Fine. I'm glad you're safe, Ginny," he added coldly. "I've got to go and see if Hermione's safe. She could be dead by now."

* * *

><p>"Where did the Mudblood go?" Bellatrix shrieked wildly, turning round and round in the hall as though certain she had simply missed the concubine in plain sight. Draco hung back, his hands trembling slightly as he followed his aunt and mother back downstairs to the front hall of the Manor.<p>

How quickly he had lost control! When he had first reported what he'd seen, he had stupidly thought he'd be regaled as a hero for his actions. But no — suddenly he'd been shoved to the side, left to watch something horrible rapidly unfold.

"Aunt Bella, please calm down — you'll shout yourself hoarse," Draco pleaded, though his voice was much less forceful than he might have liked. Bellatrix whipped around, her wand raised at him.

"You foolish little boy," she began, her dark eyes glittering with disdain as she advanced on Draco. Narcissa threw her overly coiffed self in front of her sister, her own pale eyes wild.

"Leave him alone, Bella," she ordered sharply, producing her own wand. Bellatrix looked surprised at her sister's uncharacteristic display of power. "You won't be hurting his concubine — we paid good money for her."

A squabble between the two sisters began. It was made only worse when Madame Umbridge slunk into the room, simpering with the news that his concubine was, in fact, pregnant. A fresh outburst of rage between Bellatrix and Narcissa broke out, though luckily it occurred to neither sister to reprimand Draco for this unexpected turn of events. As for Draco, he melted against the wall behind him, staring at the opposing wall in pure shock.

The Mudblood was pregnant?

He felt sick with fear as he looked upon his aunt. He knew what she did to Mudbloods and their half-blood offspring — perhaps she wouldn't do it, out of respect for her nephew?

They were so caught up in their arguing that neither of the sisters noticed the door open, and Madame Umbridge was so preoccupied byenjoying the aftermath of her 'news' that she didn't notice either. Only Draco saw the front door to the manor creak open, yet his throat seemed to stick itself together in shock.

"Draco may punish the stupid Mudblood for her mistake as _he_ sees fit, Bella!" Narcissa snarled, brandishing her wand.

"Oh, may he?"

Everyone fell silent.

The snow swirled around a slim, proud form in the open doorway. Hermione's long, wild hair fell behind her like a lion's mane, her hand was steady as she held a wand. Her dark eyes were flashing with something Draco both feared and respected, and he hated her for it. She was a feral goddess. Like Voldemort, her power seemed to shimmer in the air around her. Like Voldemort, Draco found he could not tear his eyes from her.

Bellatrix was the first to recover from her shock.

"There you are, Mudblood," she greeted in a false coo, brandishing her wand as she walked delicately towards Hermione, a sickening smile pasted on her pale face. "Madame Umbridge has just told us your news!" she squealed as she reached Hermione.

_Foolish aunt Bella,_ Draco thought reprovingly. The Mudblood was holding a wand, and he was nearly positive that she knew how to use it. And, guiltily, he knew she had a reason or two to be a bit displeased with the Malfoys...and, with Purebloods in general. Draco was all for controlling what belonged to him, but there was no need to be an idiot.

"Don't touch me," Hermione said, mimicking Bellatrix's fake coo of delight, as well as her simpering smile. "And yes — I am pregnant, and only because _that_ woman neglected to put the birth control herbs in my tea," she continued, her voice dripping with vitriol. Bellatrix's eyes flashed. All pretenses vanished as she raised her wand.

"You dare blame Madame Umbridge for your disgusting mistake? You impertinent little bitch," she hissed, continuing to approach Hermione.

Bellatrix let out a cackle, before shrieking: "_Crucio!_"

Hermione dropped to her knees on the marble floor, screaming through her teeth, though she never relinquished her grip on her wand. Even Bellatrix seemed surprised by this. A sudden, suffocating panic gripped Draco: would she lose his baby if Bellatrix continued?

Bellatrix was just ready to fire another Unforgivable at Hermione, when the Mudblood rose to her feet, still pale and trembling from the effects of the Cruciatus Curse, and fired a Hex of her own.

"_Sectum Sempra!_"

Bellatrix screamed; her wand clattered to the floor as blood dripped from her hand.

"Filthy Mudblood! _Get her, Cissy!_" Bellatrix shrieked. But Hermione was faster, and before Narcissa had even had time to process her words, Hermione had fired another Jinx.

"_Petrificus Totalus!_"

Fury ripped through Draco as he saw his mother's arms and legs snap straight. Without anything to balance her, she toppled over, her wig falling off and revealing flat, fine blonde hair pinned close to her head. Narcissa's face flushed with humiliation as Draco rushed to her aid. Madame Umbridge had scampered off, leaving the duel to Hermione and Bellatrix alone.

* * *

><p>"What in Merlin's name was that — "<p>

"_Obliviate_."

Tom watched with detached amusement as Lupin's eyes crossed before he righted himself again, shaking his head. The two men stood on the path leading to a shabby old Muggle house; these were the new Order headquarters. It was a foolish and obvious place to hide a group of wizards, especially in such close proximity to Hogsmeade, but the Secret Keeping charm had been placed. Only Dumbledore could tell the location of the house. Normally, Tom would have put work into becoming another Secret Keeper as well, but it was unnecessary and he had other, bigger problems to tackle.

"Why are we standing outside in the snow?" Remus asked in a dazed voice. Tom kept his sniggering to himself. Remus Lupin was a clever man, but even he could be so easily manipulated with nothing more than a few flicks of his wand.

"To get away from the Weasley girl's whinging —" he began, but just then, the door seemed to explode open, revealing Harry Potter. His face was flushed and he looked livid. Bill and Arthur were making to follow him.

"I'm going to Malfoy Manor to save Hermione," Harry explained heatedly, in response to Tom's arched brows.

"At least let Voldemort accompany you, Harry," Arthur begged. Harry looked displeased with this option, but Voldemort had to admit he was curious to see how Hermione was getting on without him. "Oh, and Voldemort — there's been a message for you."

Harry's journey to Malfoy Manor was momentarily delayed as Arthur handed a scroll of seemingly blank parchment to Tom. Could it be Hermione? He doubted she'd be so foolish as to communicate by letter, and his doubts were proven correct when he recognized a thin, spidery script bleed into existence on the parchment as his gaze settled on it.

_Voldemort —_

_I am sure you realized that I had to use Legilimency on you the last time we spoke. It was necessary; I have finished your friend's wand and have placed it under a disguise in my home. She will recognize the disguise; it is taken from a memory of you both that I found in your mind. I hope, when she is ready to take her wand, that I will still be alive to give it to her...But if I am not, I wish you both the best of luck._

_Ollivander_

"Who is it?" demanded Molly, who had scurried out into the snow whilst Tom had been reading Ollivander's note. With a faint grimace, Tom banished the parchment.

"An old friend," he said simply. "Gone now, most likely."

His sharp mind was racing, even as the Weasleys continued to bicker. He had to get Hermione to Ollivander's soon — Ollivander must have suspected someone had found him out. This was terrible news, but not insurmountable. Ollivander was a clever man, and would probably have found an efficient means of hiding Hermione's wand. Hopefully, whoever was going after him was not clever enough to detect the disguise.

"Come, Harry. We will Apparate there; time is of the essence," Tom said, straightening his cloak.

* * *

><p>Jinxes and Hexes were fired back and forth across the hall; Draco crouched over his mother's prone form, still trying to find the counter-jinx to release her. He had to cast numerous Shield Charms, as Bellatrix and Hermione seemed to care less and less about aim as their duel went 's hair was singed and blood was ominously staining Hermione's gown; the house seemed to quake with their screams as each cast Hexes and Jinxes more vicious than the last.<p>

"_Diffindo_," Hermione cried. A horrible ripping sound filled the room and Bellatrix let out a shriek of pain, dropping to her knees. Draco's eyes widened in shock and fear. He had _never_ seen anyone best Bellatrix in a duel.

But the thing about his aunt Bellatrix was that she was most dangerous when she was emotional or hurt. Shakily she rose to her feet again, her wand hand trembling.

"_Avada —_" she began, her voice wild with rage and pain.

Later, Draco would question himself over and over again, with no explanation for his actions. But, in the moment, it all seemed to make perfect sense. He leapt forward, one hand clutching his mother and dragging her, the other reaching out for his aunt's shoulder, and turned them on the spot.

* * *

><p>It took several, wasted minutes for Tom to convince Harry to Apparate with him to Malfoy Manor. <em>Still<em>, Tom reflected as he grasped Harry's skinny arm, _the boy's wise to distrust me. Wiser than the lot of them, anyway_.

Luckily, no one seemed to take Harry's suspicions seriously, and soon Tom was given the signal to Disapparate. It was a relief; he'd been becoming increasingly anxious about Hermione, even though he knew it to be irrational. He'd know if Hermione had died; they'd made the Unbreakable Vow, and, only in death could it be broken.

Still, he needed to see her.

Bracing themselves for whatever trouble they might be welcomed with, the two men Apparated to Malfoy Manor.

A powerful burning smell filled the air; when they both had righted themselves, Harry and Tom turned to gaze at the Manor. Intense heat melted the snowflakes around them as they gazed up at it.

It was burning to the ground. The flames rose higher and higher, crackling and eating everything in sight. There were groans as wooden beams buckled, and hisses as the fire destroyed them. The fire was massive, consuming the manor.

In front of it stood a lone figure, wand raised, hair whipping around her shoulders, cloak flapping in the snowy wind.

So, she'd already gotten the wand then? Or perhaps she had stolen it.

"Hermione!" Harry called, scampering through the snow. Tom stood there, watching her. Hermione turned her head to look over her shoulder at them, and her gaze bypassed Harry to land on Tom.

She burned brighter than the flames; she was Power itself, as she held her wand. Her dark eyes met his and a thrill of pride rippled through him. He had created this; from her raw talent he had shaped something radiant and powerful. She was a goddess; she was merciless.

She was magnificent.

And, most importantly, she was _his_.


	12. Act Twelve: Capriccio

Lacrimosa

Author's note: Thanks to everyone who reviewed! I know I always gush about you guys, but I really always mean it :) Also, thanks to wingedmercury for her incredible beta skills. As fantastic of a beta is, she's an even better writer, so go read her stuff! Some notes:

Lacrimosa is spelled as such in English; I know elsewhere it's been spelled other ways but Lacrimosa is the way I learned it to be spelled.

Also, last chapter, I promise that Lupin was not being bashed! I really enjoy Lupin's character, but I try to add Voldemort's view of people sort of subtly to his POV.

Special note: Thanks to the lovely MeriLynelle for drawing the new cover for this story! Everyone, go PM her or tweet at her because she is awesome!

Thanks to the following people for reviewing last time: **Eva1983, These Lonely Skies, helloimnicki, xLany, Yo It's Connor, malfoymannor, andiescandie, Guest, le-femme-cavalier, eltseth, ThereAre666Ways2Love, ClydeMordia, SamarKanda, Emikadon, land locked, Guest, MeriLynelle, strawberry explosion, Shan84, lilmisslovely24, Renee703, Guest, wingedmercury, BlackShirt16, A. Deca, reader204, Molly Dooker, ophyboing, gleeislove, moor, AvoidedIsland, Lillith . Faye .Black, liz3392, DArk 16EtErnIty z8, ItsNatalie, HelloIamGracie, vamp1987, Nerys, Elric-Chan, and follicle. **

Disclaimer: The HP universe does not belong to me.

* * *

><p><strong>Act Twelve: Capriccio<strong>

* * *

><p>"<em>Alas how hard it is to say what it was like,<em>_  
>this savage and sharp and strong forest,<br>which even in thought renews my fear!"_

_- Canto VII, Dante's Inferno_

Ariana gazed out the window, her mind drifting idly from one place to the next, with no real direction in mind. On days like today, it was a poor choice to remain solitary, but often she had no choice. She was confined to her room supposedly in the manner of a precious gem confined to a velvet box. Yet a gilded cage was still a cage, and so Ariana longingly pressed her hand to the cold glass, watching the heat from her skin cloud the glass surrounding it.

In the dark night, she saw a smudge on the harsh landscape: a figure approaching. And she smiled to herself. Perhaps her cage was about to be unlocked; perhaps the sun might set aglow her many facets after all. The figure was on horseback; the horse was pitch black with a sleek, gleaming coat. The wind whipped the man's cloak around him as he paused beneath her window. Ariana's smile broadened. She knew this man very well. He tilted his head back, the better to look up at her.

Ariana rushed around to the door, the only way out of her circular room. Would he be able to get past the many spells and impediments, or would he fall prey to them? She pressed her ear to the door, straining to hear the tell-tale whispers of spells and charms, but either he had been felled or her door was too thick.

There was a tapping at her window, and, annoyed at being interrupted, Ariana stormed back to the window and unlocked it. It was just big enough for an owl to fit through; too small for her to slip out of, of course. A tawny owl dropped a bit of grubby parchment into her waiting hands before letting out a hoot and flying off.

_Dearest Ariana —_

_Your prison is impossible to breach — it can only be opened from within._

_— R_

Ariana scowled and looked out the window again, and the man was waiting at the foot of the tower, looking up at her, his black hood casting his face in shadow. Open from within? Surely if she were _capable_ of breaking out of her prison, she would have done it by now. Did he think her an imbecile? Still, he clearly was not trying to save her. Ariana's blue eyes widened in disgust. He _really_ expected her to break free from the prison all on her own, didn't he?

She let out a peevish howl and stomped back to the door, fists clenched. She knew she could seethe and grumble all she wanted, but it was doubtful she'd be escaping this tower on her own. She crossed her arms and stuck her nose in the air. _Hmph._ Stupid men, always expecting the impossible from women...

"Oh, just break out of your unbreakable prison, Ariana! I've got a wand and a horse and twenty years of experience and you've got nothing, but oh, it's too difficult for me! Can't you do it for me?" she imitated his deep voice out of spite as she angrily paced back and forth across her plush rug. In her mind's eye, she saw that stupid door, the door that she had stared at for all of her life. She whirled around to face it and let out a cry of a lifetime's worth of frustration.

To her complete and utter surprise, the door burst into flame.

* * *

><p>"You shouldn't have done this! Hermione, do you have <em>any idea<em> of the magnitude of what you've just done?" Harry exploded, practically tearing out his unruly black hair. "Not that I think it was _wrong, _necessarily, but we both sort of have bounties on our heads right now and —"

"Exactly, Harry. We're both dead anyway," Hermione interrupted flatly. Harry fell silent for a moment, regarding Hermione in complete surprise. "And besides, the fire wasn't exactly my fault, either. I've been trying to put it out, but _aguamenti _is useless. ...Must be some sort of Dark fire jinx," she thought aloud, staring at the fire with a contemplative expression that was absurdly calm, given what she was staring at. Harry remained entirely flabbergasted.

"Hermione, _you're_ supposed to be the careful, cautious one of the two of us. Not me," he said weakly. "They might not even let you participate in the Order of the Phoenix now—"

"Oh no. Can't be in the Order? How sad. Because the Order is clearly making such progress," Hermione snapped, rounding on Harry with evident fury and malice glimmering in her dark eyes. Harry opened his mouth as if to argue, but wisely (in Tom's opinion) shut it at the last moment.

"You know, you're right,"he murmured softly, after a pause, his voice barely audible above the crackling of the flames. "They're not actually doing anything, are they? It's up to us — the repressed ones — to really make any changes in Hogsmeade." He looked like he was planning on continuing, but he then suddenly glanced at Tom, looking wary, and said no more.

_So the Potter boy is more cunning than he lets on...how interesting, _Tom thought with a sneer. Harry always came across as brash and a bit foolish, but there was something in his almond-shaped eyes that betrayed a deeper, darker, more clever spirit. Much like Hermione, a life of enslavement had hardened him, burying impulses underneath a veneer of experience. They both knew better than to give away their deepest thoughts — Tom understood, of course. The secrets in your heart were the only things that could not be taken away from you. You could only give those away. The smart Mudbloods thus learned to keep these things close to their heart.

How odd a trio they made, Tom reflected. They were all so filled with secrets, so very buried underneath the trials of their own lives.

But perhaps Hermione was not as careful in guarding the secrets of her heart, because there was a certain tenderness to her gaze at Harry that, mysteriously, caused Tom rage. He longed to force her to look at him, and him alone.

"We can't stay here," Tom finally said, if nothing more than to break the oddly tender look between Hermione and Harry. "Like it or not, we've got to return to the Order headquarters."

He stepped forward, in between them, and grasped their hands, his grip on Hermione particularly tight.

* * *

><p>Shock is a powerful analgesic, both for physical and emotional wounds, and for Hermione it was beginning to wear off. As the trio appeared on a swath of snow outside of Hogsmeade, Hermione felt her knees nearly buckle beneath her. Suddenly, it registered that her entire body was screaming in pain, from various jinxes from Bellatrix to the bruises from being knocked around by the sheer force of powerful Dark magic.<p>

She realized now that the front of her gown was even more bloodied than before, and a dull ache in her lower back was accompanied by a sharper one near her abdomen. When she realized the implications of these pains, she felt herself sway on the spot, and she instinctively gripped Voldemort's arm to steady herself. Now was not the time to slump over in defeat, but truth be told, she had never been this exhausted and burnt out in her life. As it turned out, magical exhaustion was a different kind of exhaustion — it was a strange feeling of emptiness in her core, as though she had been drained of something. The result was something reminiscent of thirst. Voldemort shot her a knowing look.

Remus Lupin was waiting for them. After writing the place's location in fiery script in the air, an abandoned Muggle house appeared before their eyes, complete with ratty, overgrown shrubs that were now dead.

Molly exploded out of the front door, accompanied by Lavender Brown —now Lavender Weasley, technically.

"Oh Merlin, are you alright, Hermione?" Molly demanded as she reached the trio standing on the path.

Tom watched as Hermione crossed her arms around her body protectively, having let go of his arm.

"Never better," she began, but halted when Molly's eyes flew to the wand clutched in her hand.

"Let's have Hermione lay down; don't crowd her," Harry ordered loudly, in a surprising display of tact and intuition, ushering Hermione towards the door. Molly and Lavender were left sputtering about the whole scene, as the other Weasleys came out into the night air. "She can answer questions _later_," Harry added forcefully. Tom watched as Harry pushed aside the others, leading Hermione in through the door. Most went sheet white when they saw the state of Hermione's gown.

Could all of that blood be her own? Tom brandished his wand thoughtfully as he hung back, mostly forgotten for now, as the Weasleys muttered amongst themselves about Hermione. She'd need medical attention, and he doubted anyone in the house — aside from Dumbledore, he admitted to himself quite reluctantly — was remotely equipped to treat Hermione.

He slithered through the group and in the 's magic had left faint sparks; it was most disturbing how faint her magic was at the moment. _Not good at all,_ he thought grimly. Still, he could just barely feel the tingle up his spine that seemed to lead him up the creaking stairs towards her like a faint whisper of scent, like a soft hand pressing at his back;like a leash around his heart.

* * *

><p>"Hermione, you need to tell me what happened so I can get help. Dumbledore will know what to do," Harry was saying feverishly, as he forced Hermione down onto a dusty chaise with faded brocade<strong>.<strong> When she dropped onto it, a cloud of dust rose up. Harry's face was ghostly pale, and his wild black hair was plastered to his skin by cold sweat.

"It's not that terrible," Hermione tried to snap at him, though it lacked her usual bite. She felt uncommonly weak.

"Is all that...your...blood?" Harry asked haltingly as he perched on the edge of the chaise, fidgeting. Through a haze of pain, Hermione recalled the epiphany she'd had out in the swirling snow: these pains had certain implications about her condition.

"Harry...mind giving me a moment?" Hermione moved to sit up and cringed in pain. "I just need to...deal with something..." she meaningfully glanced at the chamber pot in the corner and Harry flushed immediately.

"Of course. I'll just be — er — outside. Let me know when you're — you know — done," he muttered, stumbling in his haste to give her privacy.

Blessedly alone in the room, Hermione slid off the chaise, her knees again nearly buckling on her. She had to nearly crawl to the chamber pot, and she grit her teeth to get through the sharp pains piercing her abdomen.

_Am I losing the baby_? She hadn't expected to feel this upset about it, but even in her dazed state, she felt a rising panic. Perhaps her deeper, baser instincts were coming to the fore now. She curled up against the wall next to the chamber pot, and hesitantly, afraid of what she might find, lifted her skirts, which were heavy and stiff with dried blood. Sure enough, blood, thin and crusting on her blotchy skin, stained her inner thighs.

It was too much to even take in. Hermione drew in a deep breath, attempting to calm herself enough to perform a Pregnancy Charm, but her hands were shaking too much — whether from fear, exhaustion, or both, she couldn't be sure.

_No one has to know if I let go for a moment,_ she consoled herself. She sank back against the wall, and told herself it would be alright if she let a few tears out, but she found herself blinking, eyes bone dry, at the coffered ceiling.

There was a maelstrom of emotion inside of her, and yet, once again, a strange calm settled over her. So she had lost the child. Was it any loss? Normally, she might have insisted that any life lost was a great loss indeed, and yet, Hermione pictured Bellatrix's cackling, and was filled with a sense of relief. She could not bear the thought of bringing a new, innocent, and precious life into a world so filled with death and cruelty. She thought of Harry and Ginny's child, soon to grace this world with its innocence.

Did Ginny have any idea of how unlikely it was that her child's father would survive this war? ...Did Ginny have any idea of how unlikely it was that any of them — her included — would survive it? Especially now that she had had a hand in burning down Malfoy Manor — the war had begun in earnest now, and she was at the center of it. Word would get out that she possessed a wand. Luckily or not, Ollivander was already dead, so Hermione no longer had to worry about him paying the consequences for supplying her with a wand. He already had paid. But who had killed him?

And when would Voldemort begin to enact his own plans? Surely they could not wait much longer. Hermione ached to take action, to keep moving forward. If she stopped... she would only have more time to contemplate her losses.

* * *

><p>The boy came out of the room in which he and Hermione had sought refuge, and Tom was waiting for him. Harry was looking deeply unsure of himself, and jumped slightly when he saw Tom in the corridor. His bright emerald eyes narrowed, making their peculiar almond shape further pronounced.<p>

"What do _you_ want?" he demanded in a rough, accusatory voice. Tom arched his brows innocently.

"To help. Dumbledore is not here, and Lady Granger is undoubtedly in need of discreet medical attention." He held up his wand demonstratively, his face arranged into the picture of innocence.

Harry apparently was suffering some sort of inward struggle, judging by the conflict on his face.

"Hermione, can Lord Voldemort come in and help you?" he asked, knocking on the door. Hermione replied her assent in an uncharacteristically small, timid, and weak voice. A shadow of worry passed over Harry's face, but he jerked his head in direction for Tom to enter the room.

The room, like the rest of this house, was in shambles. Cobwebs were strung almost decoratively from all surfaces, and a thick layer of dust coated everything. Hermione, with her bright emerald gown that was stained darkly with blood, stuck out sorely.

She was curled up in the corner, next to the chamber pot. Even from across the room, Tom could see she was trembling. Perspiration was causing her hair to stick to her skin in such a way that, in another situation, might have been quite erotic.

"L-lord Voldemort," she greeted weakly, attempting to straighten.

"Whose blood is that?" Tom demanded briskly, thoughtlessly casting a silencing charm on the room and locking the door before striding across the room. For the first time, he felt a stab of worry. What if Hermione died? He had become quite attached to the idea of her aiding him in his quest, and strongly opposed changing those plans.

Seeing her looking so weak and pathetic, curled up there like a wounded animal, was in stark contrast to how she had looked mere minutes ago, in front of the flames of Malfoy Manor.

"Mine. I miscarried," she explained shortly. Tom was relieved that she did not demonstrate any emotion. "Bellatrix used the Cruciatus Curse and I think it was too much."

"You say the fire wasn't your fault?" Tom knelt down next to Hermione and cast a Cleansing Charm. For something as dark and foul as a miscarriage caused by Dark magic, the cleansing spell would never be able to get rid of all of the blood on the fabric; in fact, the gown was probably ruined. But it took care of the worst of it. He set to Transfiguring one of the dusty drapes into a new dress, though it was a rough job. It would have to do for now.

"I dueled with Bellatrix, and I think one of our curses started it." Hermione paused, her face flushing as Tom handed her the Transfigured dress. "What are you doing?"

"You'll need to change; I don't think any charm can get rid of that blood. Lay down on that chaise and I'll try to stop the bleeding," he ordered. Hermione was too weak to disobey, and dutifully slunk to the chaise where she toppled over onto it, her still-stained gown splayed about her. Tom felt another clench of fear. He had never seen Hermione openly display so much weakness. What if she was dying? "Hold still," he added, standing over her prone form. Hermione's eyelids fluttered.

"Please," she whispered, the sound a mewl of pain. Tom gazed down his nose at her.

"Please _what_? Don't act so pathetic."

A tear slid out one eye and blazed a path down her temple and into her sweaty hair. The trail gleamed wetly in the meager light. "You've causeda lot of trouble tonight. You have no right to be making requests, whatever they might be."

As he gazed down at her, he noticed a bit of parchment poking out of the low, tantalizing square neckline of her gown, between her breasts. A spark of familiarity hit him, though he was unsure of why. Curiosity overtook propriety, and with deft fingers he took the corner and slipped it slowly out from her gown. Her eyelids fluttered again at the sensation but stayed closed as he unfolded the parchment. It was warm from her skin and as he unfolded it, he was hit with the scent of her skin.

It was his most sacred composition — if not for the fact that Tom never forgot his compositions (they remained in his mind forever), he would have been quite displeased with Hermione for burning down Malfoy Manor, wherein all of his compositions had been kept. He was wise enough to never keep his valuables in so transient a place as a house, and so he had not lost anything of worth when she had burnt down the manor.

Why had she kept it, though? Had she thought it would serve him well? And if she had, why not take the whole book of compositions? Tom stared down at Hermione's face, taking in the faint, barely-visible smile lines and the smooth lips that were unusually pale. That a girl who had been through what she had been through could smile enough to cause lines was remarkable. Her throat was exposed, and she was as vulnerable as he had ever seen her.

His hand moved of its own accord, to touch the vein pulsing with life near her sharp jawline. In spite of having fainted, her blood was thumping through her veins. He didn't allow himself to pause and think of what he was doing as he let the pad of his thumb trace her jaw, brushing aside wild honey-brown strands of hair. He was filled with the same feeling he often got when his operas and symphonies were finally performed: _I have created this. This is mine. _

With that, he cast a few spells to stop the bleeding and heal tissue. These were useful spells for a disobedient Mudblood to learn, and in his years Tom had become quite practiced in them. He also cast a spell of his own: one that had similar effects to the Pepper-Up Potion. Almost immediately, some of the color returned to Hermione's cheeks, and her eyes opened again.

"I'll never apologize," she said with a little more life in her words, as she propped herself up on her elbows. Tom found himself smirking at her. _This is more like it_, he thought with something akin to pleasure. He sat himself down on the end of the chaise as Hermione examined his handiwork on the Transfigured gown. He much preferred Hermione when she was a challenge.

"First things first. Go change and then we can discuss the next steps," he said, gesturing for her to change. Hermione was clearly aggrieved at having to stand againso soon, but did as told and went behind the folding dressing screens. They had once been painted intricately, but the artistic detail was nearly masked. Tom told himself to look away as Hermione's slim silhouette appeared through the screen, and yet somehow, surprisingly, his body was being quite disobedient and he found himself staring with a raw thirst and hunger that was unusually powerful.

He wanted her.

_I _have_ her, _he reminded himself. For all intents and purposes, Hermione was truly his belonging. They'd made the Unbreakable Vow, had they not? His mind, so disobedient and out of order today, cast back to that night when they had returned from Azkaban. Her skin had been so soft, pale, and tempting in the moonlight. Why had he not simply taken what was rightfully his, anyway, that night? Why had he bothered to deny himself something that he so dearly desired? He was not one for exercising restraint.

"I suppose we're part of the rebellion?" Hermione asked through the screen. He heard a wince of pain; he saw her cringe. Then came the rustle of raw silk against soft skin, and Tom drew in a breath sharply.

"There is to be a meeting tonight," he said dismissively, letting her know without words that it was unwise to discuss their _own_ rebellion here. For a moment, Tom imagined that they could have their own hideout, their own headquarters. Just the two of them, alone to be as they were, without the need for ludicrous facades to be maintained...

But if they were to leave, it would give away too much. No, they had to stay this course, for now. He could wait until after it was all finished to claim her.

He recalled earlier that evening, and what Greyback had elucidated for him. So Regulus had been there...

...Regulus: the Usurper.

Tom hid his smile behind his hand, on which his chin was propped. These thoughts were useful for distracting him from the rather enticing sound of lacings being done up. Regulus the Usurper, and Ariana herself. He was assuming she was who Greyback had meant. Who else could it be? Ariana was, perhaps, the most significant 'she' in the wizarding world at this time.

His smile broadened when he recalled Hermione standing in front of the blazing ruins of Malfoy Manor. _Not for long, dear Ariana...soon, you are to be usurped as well..._

"This is much better. Perhaps you should become a clothier, Voldemort." Hermione's voice was falsely bright; again she was putting on a facade of strength. She stepped out from behind the screen now, twin spots of rosy color on her cheeks from the effort of doing up her gown. It was a pale, faded gold that made her skin look more sickly and pale, and it hung more loosely and did not attempt to push certain things upward or inward. Personally, he preferred the tighter fitting gowns on Hermione, but this way at least the others could not properly ogle her.

There came a knock at the door then.

"Lord Voldemort, is Lady Granger feeling well? The meeting is to start soon," Lupin's voice came through the door.

"Lady Granger is well. We shall join you momentarily," Tom called back, glancing at Hermione. The steely will that had always kept her standing tall was aiding her now in her time of weakness, and she looked as ferocious and strong as ever again. "Come; they will want to hear about your playdate with Lady Lestrange," he teased, opening the door and dramatically gesturing for her to leave first. Hermione shot him a glower and brandished her wand, but went out into the corridor anyway.

* * *

><p>Aunt Bellatrix was wild and inconsolable, as to be expected, and to be quite honest, Draco had mostly given up. Draco had Apparated them to the Parkinson Manor, and whilst Pansy shrieked helplessly, Draco helped himself to their outer cloak wardrobe and permanently borrowed one of Pansy's father's finer deep emerald cloaks.<p>

He left the women to their shrieking, knowing that the news of what the Mudblood had done to Malfoy Manor would spread like the fire that had destroyed it in the first place. Draco ventured outside, in the deepest night, in the swirling snow. He had to think fast. His own brave acts had not brought his family the fame and fortune he had thought they might merit, so he'd have to plan anew.

For what seemed like hours, Draco paced Hogsmeadeuntil he came to the gates. Draco himself had never been outside of Hogsmeade — what else was even out there worth seeing, anyway?— but a new curiosity poisoned him now, and he pushed aside the wrought-iron gate.

The wind itself seemed wilder here, and snowy moors stretched out before him to the right, while to the left, a low and tangled black forest sprawled endlessly. The half-moon was veined by the silhouette of a tree's gnarled dead branches, and Draco began to get scared. He was positive that he was alone here, and he told himself repeatedly that those voices he kept hearing were just the howling of the wind through the trees.

He ignored the hairs prickling at the back of his neck — it was cold, wasn't it? — and ventured off the path, into the brambled woods that would soon give way to the tangled moors.

He was becoming lost in his own mind, circling his frustrations pointlessly, and when he looked up again he was quite lost out here in the world as well. The moon was no longer visible, and the thorns were ruining Lord Parkinson's fine cloak. It mattered not, of course, but it was still irritating to continually becoming snagged on those stupid bushes. His fear was building up, and despite the cold his palms were beginning to perspire.

A howl, like a vicious but wounded dog, sliced through the rushing wind. Draco could not stop himself from letting out a whimper of fear. That had been some sort of Creature: it was definitely time to go back.

But he was lost. Panicked, Draco began ripping in random directions through the bramble and thorns, until his heavy panting became continuous whimpers of fear. This night had been too traumatic, and all he wanted was to crawl into a warm bed and forget everything. Why in Merlin's name had he ever come out here? What had possessed him?

Finally, he tumbled out of the brush and into the virgin snow, shaking and trembling and gasping. He welcomed the wind and cold biting at his ears and lips because it meant he was no longer in the shelter of the woods, and therefore, no longer trapped.

Again voices pricked his ears and he narrowed his eyes: he recognized these voices. On his hands and knees, he looked up, straining his eyes to see in the strangely reflective darkness of the snowy moors at night.

Four figures had flickered into visibility in the distance, following a sharp _crack_ that Draco had known all his life. Something sparked in Draco and slowly, noiselessly, he rose to his feet and readjusted the cloak round his slim shoulders. He brandished his wand thoughtfully before performing a nonverbal Disillusionment Charm, thus blending in with the snow and night around him. Noiselessly he slunk towards the figures, holding his breath though his hands trembled with adrenaline. If this was what he suspected... Warmth surged through him.

The Mudblood — _his_ Mudblood — was being supported by Lord Voldemort and a Mudblood slave whom Draco recognized,vaguely. A rather disheveled-looking man was writing something in fiery script in the air, and Draco again strained his eyes to see it more clearly.

He couldn't stop himself from gasping as a house materialized before him; judging by the architecture, it was most likely an older Muggle home — abandoned, of course. At once, two women seemed to explode from the front door, and Draco watched, enraptured, as Lady Granger was led inside by the other Mudblood, leaving Lord Voldemort standing in the snow to watch.

The blood in his veins seemed to sing with adrenaline as Draco considered what to do with all of this information. He considered telling Aunt Bellatrix, or his father, but no...They were not half as clever as he; they'd botch the whole thing. It'd be wasted on them.

Draco turned towards the forbidding silhouette of Hogwarts Castle at night and made his decision as he watched one of the slim windows in the castle flicker with the unsteady light of a flame before going out.

* * *

><p>The war had officially begun, it seemed. The burning of Malfoy Manor had been as adequate of a signal as any, and now, the entirety of Hogsmeade was on the watch for any members of the Order of the Phoenix.<p>

"It's a good thing we thought to go into hiding, since you didn't seem to think at all about anything else!" Ron exploded at Hermione, after she had finished recounting her tale. Tom watched as Hermione reddened for a moment and then seemed to force herself to calm down.

"We were already going to be at war by tonight, Ronald," she retorted acidly, her dark eyes flashing with disgust for the red-haired boy. Tom had to hide his smirk behind his hand. Oh, he did _relish_ it when Hermione was in a foul mood. It was always good entertainment.

"She's right. The Malfoy boy sounded the alarm at court earlier — everyone here was already as good as dead," explained Severus, rather reluctant to agree with Hermione.

"But _why_? What did he see that made him do that?" Molly, again, voiced the thought that everyone had returned to, repeatedly, during this pointless meeting. Hermione stood up suddenly.

"Don't you _see_? It doesn't matter! We have to start acting_ now_."

Across the room, their eyes met, and Tom found himself sharing a private look with Hermione. _Yes,_ he encouraged his own eyes to say to her, _we will discuss our own plans later tonight_.

"Eager to act now that you possess a weapon?" Severus queried. "I cannot help but wonder why Ollivander made you, of all Mudbloods, a wand." Murmurs of agreement rose in the room. Tom chose now to step forward.

"I asked him to. Lady Granger has demonstrated unprecedented skill with nonverbal, wandless magic. She is an invaluable asset to our cause," he explained, searching the eyes of the members of the Order to gauge their reactions. Everyone seemed contented enough with this explanation — after all, it was almost the complete truth.

"We're all exhausted, and it's been a long night for everyone. We all ought to get a few hours of sleep. In the morning, we can discuss our next move again," Lupin interrupted heavily, standing up as well. There were murmurs of both disagreement and dissent, but no one actively argued Lupin's option, and soon the members of the Order began trickling out of the room.

"Lady Granger, I can finish tending to your injuries," Tom said loudly enough for others to hear. He thought it amusing that no one, save for Harry, seemed to be concerned in the slightest about Hermione now that her gown was no longer blood-soaked. Luckily, now Harry seemed quite wrapped up in attending to Ginevra, and could not stop himself from touching her stomach and witnessing the child kicking.

Hermione followed Tom back to the room they'd been inhabiting earlier, and once inside, Tom put the usual wards in place.

Hermione walked to the window and stared out at it for a moment before thoughtfully drawing her new wand out of her sleeve.

"Ollivander's dead."

"I know."

Tom watched as she examined the wand in the candlelight. In the distance, pink and purple were beginning to tinge the night sky.

"So? What is _our_ next move, then? I'm assuming that ours will differ from the Order's?" Hermione asked, turning away from the window. Tom slowly smirked. How typical of Hermione to want to delve right into the plan. Tom went to the chaise and sat down on it, just noticing for the first time how tired he was. His eyelids were heavy with fatigue, and his legs ached from standing for so many hours. That, and a new melody was unfurling in his mind: he _needed_ to play it... "Well?" Hermione prompted, coming to sit by him on the very edge of the chaise. Their eyes met and, intriguingly, she hastily looked away.

"A man is after me, I believe. He must suspect me. As you learned tonight, Lupin and I visited the werewolves to get them on our side. I am old friends with Fenrir Greyback, and he hinted that a certain man had been to visit him tonight as well."

He watched Hermione process this information. How would she handle it? Her gaze seemed to grow flinty.

"Why is a man after you? And why did you tamper with Lupin's memory?" she asked shrewdly. Tom nearly choked. How on _earth_ had she noticed — "And before you ask, it's clear as day that you must have done something. Lupin is a very sharp, intelligent man, Voldemort. He does not simply forget things, especially within the span of a few hours." Hermione arched her brows at him now. "So explain."

Tom sniggered at her.

"You are not fit to order me around, Lady Granger," he reminded her, his tone frosty. Hermione, of course, was not the least bit intimidated.

"If I'm to help you properly, I need the facts," she replied briskly. Tom regarded her for a moment carefully, registering the smoothness of the skin of her collarbone.

"Dumbledore has a younger sister," he began carefully. "Or rather, he had one."

Hermione's expression did not change, but her eyes seemed to glitter with the acquisition of this new secret. "There is always talk of Grindelwald's next successor, but, you see, he already _has_ one." He watched as this additional information sank in; he could practically _hear_ Hermione's keen mind whirring, working towards the next piece.

"Grindelwald married Dumbledore's sister," she said quickly, her face growing pink with exhilaration. "Grindelwald married Dumbledore's sister and they had a son. I'm right, aren't I? And for some reason, Grindelwald doesn't want this son to succeed —"

"Ah ah, not quite. Very close, though. Well done," Tom interrupted, smirking at Hermione. She had to stop herself from pouting. "That is all the information I will give you on that for now, as we must get in some sleep before it is time to wake with the Order. We have to keep up appearances, you realize. At any rate, there is a man — no, he is not Grindelwald's successor — who is connected to Grindelwald. He is after me because he is an uncommonly clever man who knows that I may stop his own plans from coming to fruition."

Hermione nodded slowly; clearly she was working on putting these bare pieces of information together.

"And so Greyback must have mentioned something about this man to you, and you couldn't allow Lupin to have witnessed the exchange in case he mentioned it to the others," she concluded excitedly. Tom couldn't stop himself from grinning triumphantly. He had chosen so well, had he not? This little girl was _brilliant._

"Very good," he indulged. Hermione was glowing.

"Then what is our next step?" she demanded. "You can't expect me to simply go to bed without _some_ plan in mind?"

Tom paused now and stared out the window. Dawn was fast approaching; Regulus could only travel by night but no doubt he was very close by, no matter how well Tom had hidden himself. _I'm lucky that Regulus is no longer in contact with his brother, _Tom mused. _Of course, there's no room for luck; I will have to take care of that at some point in the near future._

He looked at Hermione. Perhaps she could be convinced to take care of it for him, given the right lies? He looked into her brown eyes, which were so doe-like, with their fringe of soft pale lashes and the warmth that lay in them...they were so deceptive. She truly was perfect for his purposes. With the excitement of his information, her lips and cheeks had grown a soft, light pink, lending her a girlish, almost cherubic quality. Any man would be deceived by her apparent innocence.

But he had seen her tonight; he had seen the flames roaring up around her. No, she _had_ been the flames. She was anything but innocent, and she was anything but cherubic.

"We must wait until the Order determines their next step," he finally conceded. Hermione looked horribly disappointed; he suspected that she had been hoping for something to occupy her mind. Reluctantly, Hermione rose to her feet, though quite suddenly she froze and pressed a hand to her breast, her face pale.

"Lost something?" Tom queried, holding up the folded, worn parchment that contained his symphony. Hermione immediately flushed.

"You took that from my dress," she stammered, some cross between embarrassment and anger clouding her tone. Tom smirked.

"And you took that from my room. You're lucky I remember all of my compositions by heart — otherwise I'd be quite cross with you for torching all of them."

"But you reached into my dress for it — what were you doing?"

"It fell out," Tom parried, enjoying Hermione's indignation all too much. "Why did you take that one, in particular?" She could not possibly know that this piece was so prized to him in particular; that this was no ordinary, throw-away symphony of his. This was something different...

Hermione stiffened before turning away and hurrying towards the window. Tom suspected that this was to hide any emotion passing over her face.

"Not sure," she admitted quietly. "It just...drew me in..."

Again they were faced with a silence that was, in fact, filled with noise. They were each recalling the night that Hermione had produced a Patronus charm, each recalling the almost-kiss as they'd sat side-by-side on the pianoforte bench. They were each thinking of how strange a beast desire was: it was never convenient nor was it easy, and sometimes it resembled something far less tangible and yet far more terrifying. Sometimes it looked and felt quite a bit like love. Yet there was no room in their lives for either love or desire; they were instruments of change and such personal matters were to be disregarded.

Yet if this were so true, then why did they keep returning to this deafening silence?


	13. Act Thirteen: Bergamasca

**Lacrimosa**

**Act Thirteen: Bergamasca**

Author's Note: Finally there is some romance developing between our two lovebirds! Oh, and the beginning part of this chapter is really important for plot reasons, so read carefully! **Thanks to wingedmercury for betaing. **Thanks to everyone who reviewed last time: **cicadawing, patricia pc, thestagandoe, Vanity Storm, smileylol, Maggie Wilde, anon, ImmortalObsession, dmw0991, Alassea Riddle, le-femme-cavalier, Molly Dooker, Lola, Guest, SamarKanda, Emily, malfoymannor, Eva1983, eltseth, wingedmercury, andiescandie, DArk 16EtErnIty z8, lilmisslovely, MeriLynelle, moor, vamp1987, marana1, and lalyta8.**

Disclaimer: the HP universe does not belong to me.

* * *

><p>"<em>...And she has a nature so malign and evil <em>

_that she never sates her greedy will, _

_and after food is hungrier than before."_

_Dante's Inferno, Canto I_

_**23 Years Ago**_

It had been nearly forty years since the handsome young Prince Gellert had ridden from Durmstrang Castle and into Hogsmeade, an enormous army trailing him, their blood red flags like songs of death on the late summer wind.

Gellert Grindelwald, a German prince, had felled King Cornelius with the aid of his army and his prized right-hand man, Albus Dumbledore**.** Many still were alive to recall how the city of Hogsmeade had rejoiced that day, andhow regal young Gellert had looked, with Cornelius' still-warm crown being placed on his magnificent head of blonde hair, the rubies and emeralds that studded the crownglinting in the late summer sunlight, as he was surrounded by his newly-won kingdom.

The tyranny and confusion of Cornelius' reign had finally ended, and in its place, what the citizens of Hogsmeade thought as the Golden Age could finally poverty and famine seemed to magically cease, and under King Gellert's reign, Hogsmeade flourished. Never had anyone seen such a time of splendor. Hogwarts Castle was unrecognizable, with its enormous, lush gardens that bloomed even in winter. The face of this time of opulence and beauty was Gellert, the prince who had ridden in on a white horse, his blue eyes twinkling like twin sapphires. He was a king of mischief and excitement. King Cornelius' austere court had been replaced by one of fun and games.

The only cause for concern that anyone could find in Gellert, those days, was his right-hand man, Albus Dumbledore. No one knew where Albus had come from, and no one knew exactly what he did — yet it was common knowledge that Gellert would go nowhere and make no decisions without this man.

Albus, like Gellert, possessed the handsome, strong features and the height necessary to be taken seriously. He also had blue eyes like Gellert, and some speculated that they might have been brothers. However, others disagreed — Gellert, with his fine straight nose and sleek blonde hair could _never _have possibly been related to Albus, with his crooked nose and ginger hair. Albus was still a compelling man, however, and so as the years passed, many rumors came and went like swirling smoke, yet never revealing anything about this mysterious man.

Gellert had never taken a queen, and as the years passed, this began to concern his people. King Gellert's thirtieth, then fortieth, then fiftieth birthdays passed with nary a peep about a woman. It seemed unlikely that he might produce an heir, and yet, the people of Hogsmeade so wished him to. For they had never seen as magnificent a king as Gellert Grindelwald, and wanted only someone of his fine strong blood on the throne.

They were too blind to see that trouble was brewing, and that Gellert was becoming less and less stable of a king with each passing birthday. He was moody and the executions were growing in number every year. Meanwhile, in the Muggle world, a plague was overtaking the land, and this caused the citizens of the Wizarding world to become more and more uneasy. Were they susceptible to the plague as Muggles were? Would King Gellert keep them safe? They turned to him in this time of fear, and yet, the foundation of his rule was beginning to stink of rot. So the courtiers poured on more perfume and more makeup as the paupers starved and froze.

Gellert's birthday was in the summer time, and so for his sixtieth birthday, he decided to hold a party at the palace of Beauxbatons. In the south of France in the summertime, the palace of Beauxbatons glittered at night like a fairy palace. Every tree in sight was strung with tiny lights, giving the appearance that the trees were glittering with fairy dust when the breeze moved the trees' limbs. The palace itself was a marvel of glass and gilding and it too glittered in the night. Every year that life in Europe — for both Wizards and Muggles alike — declined, Beauxbatons' magnificence was heightened further.

The gilded carriage descended from the sky, bearing King Gellert and his beloved Albus. The guests clapped and cheered wildly, admittedly already quite drunk on the finest champagne (one of the few Muggle inventions that King Gellert seemed to celebrate). King Gellert stepped out of his gilded carriage, reveling in the seeminglyunconditional love of his court. He turned to Albus, who was standing beside him. In the warm, jewel-like light emanating from the palace, the silver streaking Albus' hair stood out, yet his blue eyes had never looked deeper or more filled with vitality. He had not looked quite so alive in so long.

"Many happy returns, Gellert," said Albus quietly, his voice barely audible over the wild cheering that had not yet ceased. "I hope the party is to your liking."

"And what entertainment have you hired?" Gellert asked rather petulantly as they were ushered inside by Madame Maxime, a half-giantess who resided at the palace and oversaw its care-taking. A faint smile played on Albus' lips — it was that cryptic look he got that infuriated Gellert so. "What?" he demanded irritably at the sight of the smile.

"I found an _unusual_ bit of entertainment for us tonight, Gellert. I was stopping in a little village last week and met a fascinating young gypsy woman."

"Oh, bloody hell, not a _gypsy_," Gellert groaned. He was showered with rose petals of the palest pink by his courtiersas he stepped into the mirrored hall, his fine shoes clacking on the gleaming marble tiled floor. With a practiced hand, Albus smoothly led Gellert through the crowd, down the magnificent hall, to a small door at the very end.

The crowd of courtiers protested loudly at the king's abrupt disappearance, but it had been a long journey, and Gellert longed to freshen up a bit before the party. It was his birthday party after all, though his birthday had in fact been last week. "Remind me never to throw a party at the end of July ever again," grumbled Gellert as Albus locked the door behind them. They were now in an opulent series of rooms, and Albus strode over to an enormous four-poster bed, on which lay several robes of the finest velvets and silks, in deep, jewel-tone colors. "Too bloody hot, I'll tell you that."

"I did warn you," Albus said lightly, selecting a robe of the deepest red and trimmed with pale gold. He held it up to Gellert, who was stripping with no sign of modesty. "You ought to wear the blue." He lay the red velvet robes on the bed and held up a blue silk waistcoat, in the fashion of Muggles. Gellert scoffed and simply waved his hand in limp disgust at a Muggle fashion.

"The French have no taste for color. All this pastel pink and pale blue — ugh!"

With a sigh, Albus produced a red silk robe. It was darker than the velvet one, and in the dim lighting, gleamed wetly like blood. Gellert's eyes lit up — he'd always favored Durmstrang red — and he snatched the robe from Albus and held it up to himself, admiring himself in the large gilded mirror. "But what of this gypsy?"

Albus sat down on the edge of the bed, watching dutifully as Gellert thrust the silk back at him and returned to stripping. In spite of his advancing age, Gellert remained in possession of a tall, angular frame that had the straight posture of a young man, and in age his set jaw and frosty eyes had only become more regal. Anticipating Gellert's next choice, Albus retrieved a red velvet box from a bedside table and opened it, revealing Gellert's favorite crown — the one he had taken from the unloved former King, Cornelius.

"This lovely French family was showing me proper hospitality, and a beggar woman came to their door — as it turns out, this woman was...ah..._unsuccessful_, shall we say, as a gypsy. She was wild and drunk, insisting that she had foreseen that the King's man would be at this home today."

"Wild and drunk? Sounds like an ideal party guest," interjected Gellert dryly as he adjusted the deep red silk robes, admiring the way the fabric hung about his straight and proud shoulders. Albus chuckled.

"She would not rest until I had heard her story. Apparently, she is from a long line of Seers. She insisted that she had seen great and terrible things in her crystal ball, Gellert, but she also insisted that she would only reveal what she had seen in your company. I thought that she might go nicely between the first course and the magician's show tonight."

Gellert looked shrewdly at Albus, his suspicions raised.

"Sounds interesting enough. She'll probably predict I'll die a bloody death in a fortnight. Seers do so enjoy that little trick," he sighed. He squared his shoulders and Albus took his cue to rise to his feet. Gellert watched in the mirror as Albus reverently placed the golden crown upon his head, just as Albus had done all those years ago. And, just like that day, Gellert still felt a little thrill of exhilaration ripple through him at the sight of the golden crown on his golden (though nowadays, learning towards silver) sleek straight hair.

"You look regal as always, Gellert," said Albus kindly. Gellert turned to the ginger-haired man.

"And you look too colorful, as always, Albus," he smirked. "Purple robes, really?"

"I happen to like purple," twinkled Albus with a haughty smile. The two men sniggered at their old private joke before Gellert led the way back to his waiting guests.

The party was the most explosive and fun in recent memory. Gellert Grindelwald certainly knew how to throw a party in style. Not a single expense had been spared, and so the courtiers dined on the finest delicacies as they observed the finest entertainment. Dancing girls from the East shimmered through the banquet hall, their eyes like jewels and their voices like velvet. Courtesans in rich silks and painted faces performed a play that raised the most raucous of laughter.

And so Albus waited.

Finally, the dinner was to begin, the hors d'oeurves having been served. The banquet table, arranged in a 'U' shape with Albus and Gellert at the middle, was laden with freshly baked bread, little sweet pies filled with fresh meat, and fruit that had been sliced to look like tropical flowers. Suddenly, Albus rose to his feet, and clapped his hands.

"And now, in honor of our dear King's birthday, we have invited special entertainment. Please welcome...Sybil..." His deep, theatrical voice was filled with anticipation and the promise of excitement.

A door to the right opened, and a young, rather homely gypsy girl was ushered in. She had a hunched, insecure sort of posture, and her skinny hands trembled as she fidgeted. Her eyes were enormous, and coupled together with her glittering shawls — no doubt purchased by Albus to dress her up a bit — she gave the impression of some sort of very shy but very ugly insect. Many of the courtiers grimaced at the sight of her as she made her way with mincing steps to the center of the banquet hall.

"Well, you're a Seer, then? Predict something," Gellert shouted, banging his fist on the table. His cheeks were pink from too much champagne already, and his crown sat jauntily on his head. His courtiers tittered irresistibly at him. Even at sixty-five, he could carry the charm of a misbehaving young boy.

The girl, Sybil, trembled before the king.

"I-I see...terrible things!" she began in a whisper, her voice growing to a dramatic shout finally, as she pointed a bony finger, the nail blackened with dirt and malnourishment, at Gellert. The king merely arched a brow at her.

"Yes, I've heard every Seer in Europe predict my death, monthly, since I was twenty years old," he said coolly, abruptly dropping the rakish charm he had held a moment ago. Sybil flushed and fussed with her shawls a bit, apparently trying to regain her footing. Some of the courtier women giggled behind their fluttering lace fans. "What makes your prophecy different? Let me guess — you spotted the Grim," he said boredly, making a show of yawning and leaning his chin on his hand. Sybil grimaced and turned away for a moment, her bony form trembling.

And then suddenly, all of the lights went out, and the courtiers chuckled at the sudden entertainment. Sybil whirled around, her eyes appearing to glow. Gellert would never admit it, but he did feel an odd clench of fear in the pit of his belly.

"Today the evil forces begin to gather, and yet so does the Light as well. Today is a day of death and birth," she said, her voice deepening and throaty. Albus saw Gellert tense in surprise. Sybil approached the center of the banquet table, where Gellert and Albus sat. "Today, a boy of emerald eyes is born to a slave and a prince. Today, a boy of both the filthiest and the purest blood escapes his confines... and murders _all _who stand in his path. Today, two brothers are separated, not to be reunited for twenty three years. Today, a little girl is imprisoned."

The courtiers were, for once, silent. Gellert's fingers tightened around his champagne flute, and it crunched in his grip.

Sybil whirled around again, pointing at the courtiers. "On this day, twenty three years from now, the Light and the Dark shall clash. You all will float, dead, in a sea of filthy blood. I have seen two Grims, two Grims separated and then reunited, atop a mountain of your severed heads!"

The courtiers were no longer appearing pleasantly entertained, and instead were looking between each other in uncomfortable, feigned amusement, their fans flapping too fast and their nervous giggles a bit hysterical.

"That's _enough_," Gellert commanded, rising to his feet, his wand in hand. The courtiers gasped and shrieked at the thunderous, murderous contortion of Gellert's once-handsome face. "Leave at once or I will execute you, you fraud!"

Sybil could not be stopped. She began slinking towards Gellert again, advancing on him, ludicrously predatory.

"I see a lightning-struck tower, a black tulip. I see the lovers, and a man of the loveliest countenance and the most evil of hearts, with a silver tongue and the sweetest voice. I see a girl...a girl..." Sybil paused, turning round and round, as though searching for something, her eyes wild. "Two girls, their destinies entwined, their power of Light and Dark forces. Both imprisoned...Today, the Dark and the Light come together to end your bloody reign! Today, the jester betrays the king! The oppressed shall rise up against their oppressors!"

"_Avada Kedavra_," Gellert roared. The dark banquet hall was bleached with emerald light, and there was a sickening _thwump_ as the Seer's spindly body hit the marble floor.

_Present Day_

Hermione slept fitfully that night; even with a potion for pain that Severus Snape had brewed for her, she still could not escape the ache in her body. Worse still was the chance to think of everything that had happened to her in the past few days, and that was simply unbearable. In her bed, she tossed and turned as regret and worry returned to her like waves to a shore. She longed to be away from her thoughts, but there was no reprieve.

She rose a few hours later, donning the loose and rough gown that Voldemort had Transfigured for her. From the little basin of water she splashed cold water on her face and then stood in the room, staring out the window at the snow. The winter would be over soon, and then fresh green leaves would begin to poke out of the ice and snow. The thought of spring made her chest tighten with hope — and then she recalled that spring would not automatically bring the end of her troubles, no matter how she wished. It was likely she'd be caught in this struggle against Grindelwald and the Purebloods for the rest of her life — however long or short that was.

It was early, and no one else had awoken. How could they possibly sleep when there was so much to be done? Even Voldemort was, as far as she could tell, asleep, though unfortunately they had been forced to sleep in separate rooms for propriety's sake. How they were going to plot in a house this claustrophobic, Hermione did not know.

In the drawing room, a few cloaks lay draped over a chaise, and Hermione picked the heaviest one. She could not bear to stay confined to this house any longer; she had to get out. With her wand up her sleeve and the cloak — it smelled flowery; it was probably Ginny's — fastened round her neck, Hermione left the house silently.

All was eerily silent in the morning snow. Hermione looked around the house and found the stables, and chose a chestnut horse. She'd never been much for riding, but it would take far too long to travel on foot, and with all of the pain racking her body she did not relish the idea of walking. Still, the way the horse galloped sent jolts of pain through her body, and Hermione grimaced as she tried to master herself.

She galloped away from the house, and away from Hogsmeade, whose outline was blurry but not so distant. It was exhilarating enough that she soon forgot about her pain, and she sat up straighter on the horse as she urged it on faster.

She had never been this far away from Hogsmeade — at least, not since her birth.

Hermione was a Mudblood, and not just that — she was Muggleborn. This meant that she had come from Muggle parents. She had not dwelled on this too often in her life, because she knew it was a downward spiral of darkness, bitterness, and pain. Nothing good could come of wondering about it.

...But _why_ had she been given away?

Had her parents been so frightened by her powers that they could not bear to have a child like her? Had they truly thought that by giving her up, they were helping her? Or had they died? She did not have enough memories of her early childhood to know. Sometimes she recalled a woman with soft brown eyes like her own, but then, was that simply her imagination conjuring up the images she so dearly wished to see?

The roaring sea was in the distance, and her heart began to swell as she realized that Hogsmeade was tiny — startlingly insignificant. There was a whole world out there, a world of Witches and Wizards and Muggles alike — a world wherein her Mudblood status would not matter in the slightest to anyone. Funny how Hogsmeade had been her entire world, had seemed so enormous and all-encompassing, when the rest of the world — aside from a few Wizarding communities — hardly even knew it existed!

She could keep going, she realized. She could keep going until she reached the next settlement — Muggle or Wizard, it mattered not — and become someone else. She was free now.

...Except she wasn't.

Hermione stopped dead in her tracks and the horse whinnied its confusion. A few meters away, the sea was roaring up onto inky, jagged rocks. She stared at it, the wind whipping around her face and slicing into her skin, making her eyes run and her teeth chatter.

She wasn't free at all.

She had done nothing more than change owners, for now, her life belonged to Voldemort. In fact, she was even more of a prisoner now than she had been before. The Malfoys, the Parkinsons, and the owners before...they had merely owned her as much as they could excise a hold on her. But her life itself belonged to Voldemort. And not only that, she had given it to him.

How clear it all seemed now! She could have concocted a plan for escape. She could have even stolen a wand. But, in the clutches of slavery, her body and mind being raped by a spoilt brat, she had not seen how stupid her choice had been. What was freedom from enslavement if she could never truly go where she wanted? Until Voldemort's nebulous 'plan' succeeded, he owned her.

Suddenly, Hogsmeade seemed again enormous, compared to the miniscule universe in which she and Voldemort solely existed together. Not only that, she had stepped into the prison herself, locked the door, and thrown away the key — forever. Voldemort had done nothing to force her into this, he had simply made a bargain. And she had accepted it without a second thought. He had even warned her against it!

The horse clopped around in the snow, clearly bored with standing still. Hermione slid off the horse and led it by the reins to the shoreline. Standing on a rock, sprayed by the freezing February waters, Hermione considered her options.

She could go along with Voldemort's plan blindly. Clearly he wasn't going to tell her anything any time soon. Or she could try running away and disobeying him, which was, essentially, suicide. The Unbreakable Vow dictated that she would die if she did not follow through. Or she could simply commit suicide, and drown herself here and now.

...Or...?

Her survival instincts tossed aside the suicidal options immediately. She hadn't come all this way to give up now, had she? She had made a bargain with Voldemort for a reason: she wanted to become free. And once Voldemort achieved his goal — whatever it precisely was — then she would be free.

Besides, didn't she want to help Voldemort? He was so powerful, and they could change the world together. She knew this. So why was she shying away from it? Voldemort may have become her owner, but hadn't he, in a way, given her so much? It wasn't just a wand — he had helped to hone her magical skills, helped her advance further than she might have on her own. Was she afraid of her own power?

Her power... Hermione let go of the reins and the horse wandered a few paces away, nosing the snow in search of grass. A wave loomed over the rocks, and Hermione slipped her wand out of her sleeve, holding it up in the morning light. She closed her eyes and waved her wand, like a conductor of a symphony, and when she opened her eyes, the wave had been pushed backwards, away from her.

No, she did not fear her own power.

Hermione's lips tugged upward into a slight smirk. Voldemort should fear her. Because she was going to figure out his plan, and she was going to help him just enough to keep the Unbreakable Vow, and then...then, she would break free. If she could not have him, if he so refused her, then she would become her own person again. She would not allow her desire to please him, to be with him to weaken her — not ever again.

* * *

><p>The coming hours brought with them confusion and anarchy. Draco had never seen Hogsmeade so overturned. Every minute, more Blood Traitors were being reported to King Grindelwald, and every hour Hogsmeade's population thinned, and bore more signs of wear and tear. Manors and houses were ghostly empty as their inhabitants were taken from them and held in prison, or tortured, or simply...killed. Everyone was suspect; everyone was, in Grindelwald's eyes, a Blood Traitor. He insisted that it was for 'the Greater Good' but no one was listening to the old man anymore — everyone was too afraid to listen to anything at all.<p>

The Malfoy family continued to encroach on the Parkinson's precarious hospitality — there were certainly enough rooms in Malfoy Manor. However, the Parkinsons had apparently not forgotten that Draco had, in essence, refused to wed Pansy. Things were tense in the Parkinson household.

Darkness fell once more over Hogsmeade as night approached; Draco had already had his favorite tailor, Madame Malkin, design a fresh batch of traveling cloaks and fine robes for him to replace the ones he had lost. She worked quickly and he had had them in a matter of hours. However, these designs were a departure from the silvery brocades and glimmering silks that he had once favored — these clothes were dark, and plain. They had a simpler, plainer nature, and yet their cut was a sleeker, more fashionable fit. Draco scoffed at the idea of abandoning all taste simply for the sake of practicality.

He abandoned his wigs, too, finding them ridiculous in this time of war and upheaval. Whilst his father and mother's wigs grew in height and ornamentation, Draco stood before the wide gilded mirror in his room at the Parkinsons', running a hand over his silvery blonde hair in surprise. It had been so long since he'd seen himself with no white face powder, with no wig, no blush, no ornamentation, that seeing his naked face and plain hair was disorienting.

But he liked it. He turned slightly, admiring the sleekness of his gleaming blonde hair and how, this way, the sharpness of his cheekbones and jaw were set on display. He looked so angular, so sharp now. Draco adjusted his heavy black traveling cloak, pleased with how it swirled about his tall form — yes, he liked himself much better this way. He looked like someone to be respected, someone to be _feared._

Draco left the Parkinson house, unchecked, and stepped out onto the street. No one noticed him as he melded with the shadows, and this way he could freely observe as the Bones household down the road was raided for Blood Traitors. Draco wisely grasped his wand tighter and swept down the road, the wet snowflakes of late winter stinging his cheeks.

He was on a mission of his own.

* * *

><p>"Our spy tells us that Hogsmeade is in total disarray," Lupin announced. Tom was more shocked at the rest of the Orders' surprise than at the news itself. His lip curled as he observed the room break into murmurs. Of course Hogsmeade would be in total disarray: a Mudblood had acquired a wand and — allegedly — burned down Malfoy Manor; Ollivander (the only wand-maker in England) had been murdered; the grand Potions Master to the king had disappeared (as had the premier composer), and rumors of war were flying back and forth. As a preemptive response to the news of rebellion, Grindelwald had begun imprisoning suspected 'Blood Traitors' with indecent gusto.<p>

Again, Tom was disappointed in the king. He had expected a worthier opponent in Gellert Grindelwald but he supposed the man was losing his touch in his old age. He had always lacked the clinical detachment that Tom himself possessed — Grindelwald might act confident and heartless, but Tom knew that deep down, the man possessed more secrets than even he did.

Which reminded him — where was Hermione, anyway? He had not seen her all day. He had pinned it down to her mourning the loss of a child — one she hadn't wanted, he'd happily remind her if she dared to bother him with her whinging about it — but she'd been gone all day and it wasn't like her to just wander off somewhere.

Lupin was saying something inconsequential, and Tom took the chance to slip out unnoticed.

* * *

><p>She shouldn't have wasted so much time, but Hermione found herself experimenting with her wand. She hadn't had a chance to really play, after all, and much of the daylight hours were lost to making snow melt, change color, mold into snowmen, and other assorted silly tricks. The wand undoubtedly changed everything — she barely had to think about the spells, really.<p>

There was a strange thing, though — she was beginning to get the sneaking suspicion that it wasn't this easy for everyone. How often had she witnessed her masters' children toiling away with spells as simple as _wingardium leviosa?_ And yet here she was, even without the _names_ of spells, charming and enchanting the snow as though second nature.

Nightfall was approaching, and she knew she would be missed if she continued to stay out here and play. Besides, it was getting a bit cold, even with the number of blue fires she had cast to keep herself warm.

With a last longing glance at the horizon, Hermione raised her wand up to the stars and closed her eyes. She mustered her favorite memories, and, unbidden, Voldemort's face and the memory of velvety black tulips colored everything else. There was a swelling of something deep and intoxicating inside her as she thought of his eyes as dark as the tulips. Perhaps he was her master, but had there ever been more delightful a cage?

"_Expecto Patronum_," she whispered into the wind as she moved her wand through the air. When she opened her eyes, silver was pouring from her wand, illuminating the snowflakes that had begun to fall, and took the form of a sleek otter. It glowed in the darkness and dipped and swam throughout the air before taking off into the distance — towards Hogsmeade. It faded in the night and finally Hermione ceased staring after it, and returned to the horse, who was by this time understandably cross with her for having been made to wait so long. With a sigh, she mounted the horse, and began galloping back towards the Order's headquarters.

* * *

><p>Tom donned a heavy black cloak and stepped out into the swirling snow. He had not expected to feel so anxious about Hermione's disappearance, but as he observed the snow falling more and more heavily, and the sky dark and moonless, his chest began to tighten. <em>Idiot.<em> Where in Merlin's name had the witch gone? Tom considered simply taking one of the horses for the sake of speed, but as he turned towards the stables, he caught sight of something: the silhouette of a woman on horseback, galloping towards him.

Rage flared as he recognized the rider by her posture and hair. Had she gone for a day-long ride without telling anyone? How audacious of her. How dare she go somewhere, in a time of war — against Mudbloods no less, with her face as the very picture of the rebellion — on her own! She had not even bothered to tell him.

Hermione slowed as she approached him, her face flushed from the freezing air and snowflakes caught in her wild hair. She looked... exhilarated. Momentarily he forgot about his rage towards her as he was mesmerized by the sheer magic radiating off of her. Understanding dawned on him then — she must have been practicing with her wand...playing with her new toy. Her expression of pure joy was dimmed when she saw his angry face.

Hermione's jaw clenched as she approached Voldemort. He looked _furious_. His jaw was set and his eyes were colder than the falling snow. He struck quite an intimidating figure, standing there in his cloak, with his hair falling into his eyes. In spite of being higher than him, she still felt as though he were standing over her. He always had that effect on people.

"I suppose it was too much trouble to alert anyone to where you decided to wander off to?" he demanded coldly. Hermione flushed.

"I suppose it was too much trouble to come looking for me? I was just over there; not even a mile away." She pointed back towards the coast, but Voldemort looked no more ameliorated.

"We are at war with Hogsmeade, and also less than a mile from Hogsmeade," he said tightly. "What a foolish little girl you are, to think you are any match for Grindelwald's soldiers."

Hermione dismounted the horse simply to have a reason to look away from Voldemort's scalding, hate-filled gaze. The horse obediently clopped over to the stables behind the house without direction, leaving Hermione alone with Voldemort.

"I just wanted some time by myself. I would have come back immediately at the first sign of trouble," she retorted, feeling childish somehow. "I wanted to practice my magic with my new wand."

"Let's hope no one spotted you," Voldemort replied flatly, narrowing his eyes disdainfully at her. For a moment, they stood there in painful, searing silence, as Hermione stared down at the ground to avoid the way Voldemort was staring at her so reproachfully.

"I'm sorry," she said quietly. She braved looking up and meeting his eyes again, though this time the emotion in them was unreadable to her. She could not interpret this particular look. "When do we begin our plans, Lord Voldemort? I can't stand this waiting," she added desperately.

"Soon. There is a meeting with the rest of the Order now; we can only act in accordance with their plans for now. You know that."

Tom watched Hermione look down and bite her lip.

"You know...I produced another Patronus," she said, changing the subject to avoid more reproach. Tom arched his brows at her expectantly. When she met his gaze again, her eyes were shining with that same exhilaration, and it beckoned him closer in a way he could not find the strength nor skill to fight against. How he longed to immerse himself in those brown eyes, how he longed to feel that burning energy that made her so uniquely powerful, so enticingly compelling.

He recalled her confession: that the first time she had produced a Patronus, it had been due to memories of him. She was his, like a precious jewel that he both longed to keep from the world to relish for himself and yet, at the same time, longed to show off to the world her dazzling radiance.

"Hermione! There you are!" Harry popped out of the front door, looking immensely relieved. "Come inside, you two — there's a meeting." Harry shot Tom a suspicious look before returning back to the warmth of the house, and with one last fleeting glance between them, Hermione and Tom went inside as well without another word.

Unsurprisingly, Hermione and Tom's absence had gone unnoticed, and they sidled into the drawing room with the others. Lupin had finished his report on the status of Hogsmeade, and now Severus was being forced to give his opinion on an attack strategy.

"I'm telling you that however Hogsmeade _looks_ right now, Grindelwald is no fool, and he'll have spies and soldiers everywhere. The only way is to infiltrate Hogwarts and bring down the structure from within," Severus was explaining irritably. None of the other Order members looked too pleased about this.

"We'll never be able to infiltrate Hogwarts effectively," interrupted Arthur, rising to his feet. "And besides, that's cowardly."

"Not cowardly — it's smart." Severus was looking like he'd dearly love to beat Arthur over the head. "I was Grindelwald's Potions Master for many years, Weasley, and I have come to know the man quite well. He is a sharp man and has not lost his touch in his old age."

"I want to hear Dumbledore's opinion on this. Where is he, anyway?" Bill Weasley interrupted. Murmurs of agreement filled the room, and Tom felt Hermione nudge him. He glanced over to see her raising her brows at him questioningly. He shook his head at her — he didn't know where Dumbledore was either, though he had a sneaking suspicion that wherever he was, it had something to do with the Amortentia that Snape had been brewing the last time they had been inside his home...

The meeting went on with much arguing about the best attack plan; everyone was dismissed for dinner. Molly had made a feast, and after a long dinner wasted pretending to find Charlie Weasley interesting, Tom was quite eager to retire to his own chambers. Across the table, he met Hermione's dark eyes. She seemed to glimmer with excitement and eagerness. He suppressed a smile. He loved how driven and focused she could be. Even if she _had_ wandered off all day without mentioning it to him...

Hermione picked at her food, already feeling quite full. Her stomach was unaccustomed to such rich food, and admittedly her appetite had been a bit turned by the last few days' ordeals. Still, she forced herself to eat — she'd need her strength later.

"Do you ever hear from your brother, Sirius?" asked Molly innocently.

Silence descended over the table abruptly; forks clattered to plates as everyone observed Sirius staring coldly at Molly. His handsome features had hardened with disgust.

"How dare you utter my foul brother's name in my presence," he snarled, rising, his face flushing. Lupin, who was seated next to him, gently placed his hand on Sirius' elbow, guiding him subtly back to his seat. At Lupin's touch, Sirius visibly calmed, though his normally warm brown eyes were dancing with pent-up rage towards Molly. Molly had gone flushed with indignation.

"It's a simple question, Sirius," she blustered, looking down at her plate. "Regulus was banished years ago; you ought to be over it by now."

"He's a traitor," retorted Sirius roughly. "I'll not have him discussed now as a common topic of entertainment! He tore my family apart."

"Padfoot, your family was already torn apart," interrupted Lupin gently. Others raised their brows slightly at the odd nickname, but no one remarked on it aloud. The air was crackling with vicious dislike between Sirius and Molly, but Lupin was attempting to soothe the waters. "Molly, Regulus has made many lives quite difficult. To Sirius — and many others — he has been long since dead. We ought to leave it that way."

Hermione could not stop herself from looking across the table and meeting Voldemort's dark eyes. His gaze flicked to her and his lips twitched slightly. He gave a nearly imperceptible shake of his head — not now, he was saying to her — and she nodded slightly in return. The hairs on the back of her neck raised slightly with the feeling of being watched, and she looked round the table.

Harry was staring between her and Voldemort, his emerald eyes narrowed into suspicious crescents. Something in Hermione's gut twisted; when Harry was suspicious of something, he was admirably, relentlessly tenacious in pursuing it. She smiled slightly at him, the sort of smile to bespeak of how uncomfortable the situation was. He seemed slightly ameliorated, though she made a note to be more careful near Harry from now on.

"...To answer your question, I believe he is dead, Molly," Sirius finally said. "I last heard that he was found in a ditch near Godric's Hollow." At this, a sharp intake of breath was heard, and Hermione looked to see that Harry, mysteriously, had gone sheet white. _What in the name of Merlin...?_ She studied Harry, though he was now staring at Sirius with something unidentifiable to Hermione. He set his goblet down heavily and rose from his chair.

"I am going to rest," Harry announced. No one seemed to notice his discomfort, as everyone was still riveted to the altercation between Sirius and Molly. Hermione met Voldemort's eyes; she looked meaningfully towards Harry's seat then to the door. Voldemort nodded, and hurriedly Hermione fled the dining room. No one noticed her leaving.

Hermione searched all of the rooms of the house, but found Harry in none of them. She snatched a cloak and ran outside, wand at the ready, and found Harry zooming towards the sea on a borrowed broomstick. _Bloody hell. _Remembering Voldemort's words from earlier, Hermione cast a Disillusionment charm on herself before hurrying through the snow after Harry.

Eventually, lungs burning and limbs aching and cheeks frozen, Hermione reached Harry. He was perched on the very same rock she had found earlier, looking quite sulky...and cold. Hermione cast a few charms and soon approached Harry, bearing her blue fires.

"Harry, I know you're upset but at least let me cast a Disillusionment charm on you," she sighed. Harry jumped slightly.

"Hermione...oh, there you are," he added as he spotted the blue fires. She sat down on the rock with him and handed him one of the flames, which he took quite hesitantly. Hermione cast a second Disillusionment charm and Harry melded with the snow and rock.

"We ought to put these out," Hermione said, before casting the spell to destroy the flames.

"Damn. They were nice while they lasted," Harry sighed as his went out. "I suppose we've got to be careful to not be seen," he agreed.

For a moment, they were silent. Harry was radiating waves of rage and angst, so Hermione let him stew for a few minutes. She knew from experience that it was unwise to prod at Harry when he was like this, but he often calmed down quickly enough. Sometimes, he even explained his loss of temper.

Hesitantly, she reached out, and when her hand came in contact with his back, she smoothed her hand down his back, cringing at how underfed he felt. Through the thin fabric of his clock and waistcoat she could feel the ridges of large, rope-like scars. Harry had never been particularly obedient, after all, and paid dearly for his poor temper.

She felt him breathing in and out, deeply, as though trying to still the forces swirling inside of him. "Sirius never mentioned he knew anyone from Godric's Hollow," Harry finally said, his voice dark.

"Why is Godric's Hollow significant?"

"Many reasons," Harry seethed. She felt the muscles in his back tighten. "One of them being that that is the place where my mother and father are buried. Another is that there was something found there..."

He didn't continue.

"...What was found there, Harry?"

"I can't tell you. I wish I could, Hermione. I wish we could tell each other our secrets," he sighed. Hermione bit her lip. "Only Dumbledore and I know about it. It's got to stay that way. I've got to do something, and..." Harry trailed off before letting out a rather inventive expletive. She felt him moving to run his hand through his hair.

"I'm so sorry, Harry," Hermione sighed, moving to wrap her arms around Harry. She rested her cheek against his shoulder. Even as she remained outwardly calm, questions buzzed around in her mind. Of course, none of them could be answered yet... "It seems like Sirius didn't know, Harry. And you know he's not exactly known for his sensitivity."

"No, he isn't," Harry snapped. Hermione couldn't stop a smile from forming. Harry never stayed angry at his godfather for particularly long.

"We've got to head back. It's not wise to stay out here," Hermione finally said, standing and grasping Harry's hand to pull him up. With a sigh, he rose to his feet with her. For a strange moment, he did not relinquish her hand, and they stood there by the roaring sea, their blood warming them.

"Thanks, Hermione. Let's go back," Harry replied quietly. "We can ride the broomstick back."

Hermione disliked brooms but nevertheless sat sideways behind Harry, wrapping her arms round his abdomen as he took off. She rested her cheek against his back, closing her eyes to the onslaught of snowflakes, listening to Harry's heartbeat. How soothing it was, to wrap one's arms around a man and listen to his steady, vital heartbeat. How she longed to be this close with Voldemort...

When they returned to the house, they waited until they were safely inside before Hermione lifted the enchantment, rendering them both visible again.

"Where did you two go?" Ron demanded suspiciously, having come out from the drawing room. Harry seemed at a loss, so Hermione saved him.

"Looking at the stables," Hermione replied shortly. This seemed to satisfy Ron. Ginny soon appeared, occupying Harry's attention with more tales of the baby kicking. Hermione felt an odd twist of envy pinch her heart — not at the loss of Harry's attention, but, even more oddly, at the loss of her own child. It threw her, and for a moment, she stood staring at Harry and Ginny, waiting to regain her balance of emotions. Why in Merlin's name was she feeling jealous of Ginny for being pregnant? She hadn't wanted a child, and not one through rape especially.

Across the room, Tom observed Hermione watching Harry place his ear against Ginny's belly, her features contorted into an expression of first something like hatred or envy...and then complete surprise. She swayed slightly on her feet as she watched the loving couple.

It was like a slap in the face. Was Hermione in love with the Potter boy? _Impossible,_ he thought immediately. Yet he'd not forgotten that strange look of tenderness he'd witnessed between them, outside of Malfoy Manor...

"Lady Granger, will you help me mend one of my coats?" Tom demanded loudly, surprising himself. It was a suitable excuse, especially since, of all those present, Hermione was most capable at mending clothing. She looked further stunned at his words, but nodded agreeably and followed him to his chambers silently.

When they were safely inside of his room, the usual wards up, Tom rounded on Hermione. He opened his mouth to reprimand her, but for what? She'd done nothing wrong, yet he felt so angry with her. He wanted to shake her, or...or...

"I think we need to be careful. Harry suspects something is going on," Hermione spoke, looking pale and rubbing her hair from her face. "He said he's upset because Sirius mentioned Godric's Hollow...and apparently, something was found there that somehow involves him. He wouldn't tell me what, though."

Rage forgotten, Tom began to pace.

"Easily solved. I suppose I ought to teach you Legilimency." He watched as Hermione frowned.

"Reading his mind? Won't he notice?"

Tom sniggered.

"Only if you grasp him and announce to him that you'll be reading his mind. The boy doesn't strike me as the type who would have any natural inclination towards Occlumency — you'll have no trouble at all at getting inside his mind."

Hermione didn't look too pleased about this, but she made no further comment on it. She sat down on the edge of his bed heavily, looking toward the fireplace, lost in thought. She cast a fire and flames roared in the fireplace.

"Who is Regulus, anyway? I didn't know Sirius had a brother..." Hermione puzzled. Tom sat down next to her.

"Well, he's not dead. Whoever they think they found in that ditch, it wasn't him. Regulus is very much alive," Tom replied. He glanced at Hermione, suddenly struck by how close they were. The flames were reflected in Hermione's eyes. "He's the man we spoke of last night."

Hermione's face was impassive, and it frustrated Tom. He had thought he'd get to see her face changed as she refitted the puzzle with this new information, but she merely nodded.

"I guessed when you first mentioned that he wasn't dead," she explained. She looked back at the flames; the dancing fire left swirling glowing patterns on her pale face. She looked tired again. "I suppose we'll have to do something about Sirius — though it seems unlikely that Regulus would contact him."

It was like she was already a master Legilimens, for she had seemed to read his mind. However, Tom merely nodded, unwilling to give away how she had impressed him again. "I don't see why you can't at least tell me why Regulus is after you."

"I give you instructions and you follow them, and that's final," Tom said sharply. Hermione flinched slightly.

"Then what am I supposed to do next?"

"In disguise, you will visit Ollivander's home. It would be unwise for me to leave the Order, because I am already suspect. But no one suspects your allegiance, and —"

"—And if I go missing, no one will notice," Hermione finished rather dully. "Except Harry, of course."

Again with the Potter boy! Tom felt the blood rush to his face, as he was again gripped by the urge to shake her or Hex her or...something. Abruptly he rose to his feet and rounded on Hermione.

"Will you forget about Potter for one moment?" he hissed. "You will disguise yourself and visit Ollivander's home. I can teach you a number of incantations to determine clues about his death. Anyone else who will have been there will be in on this, so whatever you find will serve us well."

He resumed his pacing, feeling Hermione's irritable stare raise the hairs on the back of his neck all the while.

"And who will I disguise myself as?"

"There's a Muggle village not far from here — Severus has brought his Polyjuice stores as well as a number of other useful potions. He will be happy to lend us a phial of Polyjuice. We can simply take a hair from a Muggle girl in the village — or boy if you prefer."

"When do I go?"

Voldemort paused to stare at her contemplatively.

"You will go to the Muggle village and retrieve hairs from a Muggle tomorrow during the day. After nightfall, you will leave for Hogsmeade."

Hermione, relieved at _finally_ having a next step in place, flopped backward on the bed, staring up at the canopy. Her limbs still ached with a pleasant sort of exhaustion — with a plan in mind, she could finally relax enough to sleep, she felt.

"Will you play for me?" she asked, her voice soft. Tom watched her from the fireside. He'd taken the room with a piano, but he'd not had the chance to touch it yet. It remained coated with dust. "Can you, perhaps, sing as well?"

Tom sniggered at her request. Of course he could sing — he was (or, well, _had been_) the premier composer for the King. What a stupid question. He waved his wand and the dust flew off the piano, rising in clouds around it before settling on the floor. Hermione remained draped on his bed languidly. From this vantage point, he could admire the lean curve of her waist, dipping down to her slim hips and sweeping up to her small but full breasts. His mouth went dry and he turned away abruptly, and sat at his new piano bench.

He closed his eyes as his fingers found the keys automatically, and the room was filled with soft, melancholy music. He would not sing (how undignified) but he'd happily play. He had been longing to play a melody that had been floating round his mind for days now. The soft melody swept upward into swooping chords that made his blood sing. In his mind, he could hear the violins whining in harmony, as the cellos groaned their sad response. His mind filled with the music, lifting out the window and into the driving snow, flowing outward, spreading its wings, and remembering times long since past.

Hermione turned on her side, and curled into a cat-like position as she watched Voldemort play.

Someone had once told her that life was cyclical, that everything returned to its origin eventually. It was human nature, she felt, to look for patterns and to analyze, to search for meaning in the most mundane. She did not see the cyclical nature of life, because it made no logical sense to her. There was no rhythm or reason to life — things happened, and there were consequences.

Now she thought of this, as she mulled over her losses again. But, for the sake of argument, what if life _were_ one cycle? If so, then what was her origin? How could she know when she returned to her beginning if she didn't know what it was? Sometimes she felt as though she'd always _been,_ that there was no beginning to her strange life.

And what of Voldemort? What was his beginning, and what would be his end? Would their endings be intertwined, as their lives had so unmistakably become?

He was so lost in playing that Hermione was able to slink off the bed and over to the piano unchecked. His dark hair was curling at the nape of his neck — he was the only man she knew who did not have some elaborate hairstyle in accordance with the fashion of the times — and a sliver of smooth skin between the collar of his waistcoat and hair was visible. Without thinking, Hermione pressed her hand to the nape of his neck.

Tom's shoulders tensed but he did not stop playing. He turned his head to look behind him and his cheek brushed against Hermione's slender wrist, her skin surprisingly smooth after a life of servitude. She was looking down at him, studying him.

His cheek had felt so smooth, with just a hint of the anticipation of stubble along his jawline. His eyes had never looked so dark.

She had told herself that she would not become powerless before him, and that she would remain in control. But that was so difficult when faced with his mystery, with the smooth but hard lines of his face, with the softness of his lashes surrounding the darkness of his eyes.

He stopped playing.

One hand slid round to the small of her back, bringing her closer, as she let her fingers weave into his hair. Hermione sank to her knees, her skirts piling around her, as Voldemort leant down, her hand guiding his face closer to hers, his hand now on her shoulder. His fingertips slid along her collarbone and up her neck, into her hair, and each guided the other closer to them.

"I'm sorry for going off without telling you today," said Hermione softly. Their foreheads were pressed against each other.

"Don't do it again." His voice was velvety and dark and possessive.

Hermione swallowed her fears and tilted her head so that her lips brushed his.

Tom's eyes shot wide open in surprise before something darker overtook him and his fingers tightened in Hermione's thick, wild hair; his eyelids slid shut. She let out a sigh against his mouth and he gripped her shoulder with his free hand, to bring her closer. He wanted her, he wanted all of her, and he wanted no one else — least of all Potter, or that foul brat Malfoy — to have her, ever. Her lips were soft and there was something uniquely, primally satisfying about the way their lips and wet tongues slid against each other, as months of pent-up desire leaked out from between the seams.


End file.
